


Tumblr Ficlets and Drabbles

by green_violin_bow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Blow Jobs, Casual mention of rimming, Celebrating John's birthday, Christmas, Dom/sub, Drug Abuse (mention), Established Relationship, First Date, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Gratuitously loving spontaneous offering of flowers, Greg has a hot cousin, Greg is a romantic, Greg loves baking, Greg works too much, Honeymoon, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Magical Realism, Men in black tie, Mild Angst, Mycroft Holmes really knows how to sink £1000 on a coat doesn't he, Mycroft works too much, Parentlock, Pining, Protective John, Sherlock and Greg go night-swimming in the Thames because obviously that's a valid life choice, Spanking, The Holmes Brothers Being Like They Are, Uncle Mycroft, Unilock, Unspoken Commitments, balletlock, just a collection of ficlets and drabbles from Tumblr, mystrade, rated E just in case, which I've been meaning to back up to AO3 for ages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-03 15:33:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 23,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13344180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/pseuds/green_violin_bow
Summary: The short Mystrade and Johnlock ficlets and drabbles I've posted to Tumblr over the past couple of years - finally backed up to AO3!





	1. Rings

**Author's Note:**

> (Johnlock)

“I got these for us,” said Sherlock in clipped tones as he dropped heavily onto the sofa next to John. John started, definitely _not_ shaken out of a peaceful nap, curled up with the blanket that smelled so comfortingly of Sherlock, of Baker Street, of home.

“What?” he asked blearily, blinking and rubbing his swollen, tired eyes. Sleep had been hard to come by in the last few weeks; after everything that had happened, he was finding it almost impossible to fall asleep at night, despite Sherlock’s near-constant violin music wafting up the stairs. Normally that would lull him to sleep in short order, but now the nightmares were so strong and so regular that he was woken again almost as soon as he managed to drift off. God knows when Sherlock was sleeping; he was either playing violin to John or dragging him out on cases, working him harder than he ever had before, imbuing everything with urgency, the need to run, to act. Not to think. They didn’t talk about it. But God, John was grateful.

“I got us these,” repeated Sherlock bluntly, rolling his eyes at John’s slowness. He turned his hand upside-down over John’s, unceremoniously dumping something light into John’s small, cupped palm. His fingertips and the heel of his hand brushed John’s, and John fought the urge to inhale sharply at the feather touch. Control.

Still fighting the unreal, foggy, post-nap feeling, John stared down at his palm. Two light things, in fact; one larger and one smaller silver-coloured ring. They were clearly new but not particularly shiny. They had been artfully designed to look a little battered on the outside edge, the one that showed to the world. The inside was shiny and smooth, save for – he could see, turning them over gently, with cautious fingers – yes, they were engraved inside, very simply: the smaller one said ‘Sherlock’ inside, the larger said ‘John’.

John was lost for words. He stared down at his palm, unsure what to say. “Oh,” he said, eventually. “What are they for?” He heard a short intake of breath next to him, and assumed that Sherlock was once again exasperated with his slowness.

“They’re so we can pretend to be married, every time we get injured,” said Sherlock, with asperity. He sounded annoyed, and John swallowed guiltily. There had been an unfortunate incident last week where John had ended up being carted off to A&E in the back of an ambulance. He’d passed out before being able to confirm Sherlock’s story that they were married, which meant that Sherlock had been forced to follow along in a taxi.

By the time Sherlock had arrived at the hospital, John was awake, just waiting for a final once-over from the doctor on duty, and the paperwork to allow him to discharge himself. He’d only realised the impact it had all had on Sherlock when he heard the human whirlwind making its way down the ward towards him. Indignant cries from the ward sister – a formidable woman with whom only Sherlock would have dared to tangle – and the sound of his flatmate deducing people viciously to get them out of his way.

And suddenly Sherlock was there at his bedside, looking John up and down with mingled terror and fury, muttering, “how could you, _how could you?”_ and finally letting off steam by turning around to shout “GET OUT!” at the top of his voice at the ward sister, who was protesting loudly at him from the end of John’s bed. She was momentarily silenced by his rage, and he took the opportunity to yank the blue curtain violently in front of her face, shutting her out with a swish of synthetic material that came within a whisker of hitting her in the nose. _“Well!”_ they heard her shout from behind the curtain, and then she was stamping away, doubtless to call someone to take care of the situation.

John had sighed, looking at Sherlock with exasperation as usual. But beneath it all, he could see the little tells. Yes, Sherlock’s face was stormy with fury at the idiocy he saw everywhere around him. But his hands were also shaking – he was trembling all over, really.

As they left the hospital, Sherlock had refused to take his hand from the small of John’s back.

Now, John separated the rings, unable to take his eyes from them. Sherlock’s ring _(John)_ in his left hand, his ring _(Sherlock)_ in his right. His gaze was steady as he reached out for Sherlock’s left hand, and pushed the larger ring onto his finger without hesitation. Sherlock’s fingers were just a little cold between his own. Resistance at the knuckle, but an insistent push slipped the ring home. Sherlock was silent, lips pressed together, but not motionless with shock. His eyes were wary, searching John’s face with restless, hungry glances.

John pulled Sherlock’s right hand into his and dropped the ring back into his palm, placed his left hand on Sherlock’s knee, fingers extended. Waiting. Sherlock’s eyes still darted over his face, a knot of – something – worry? frustration? between his eyebrows.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “It’s not –” He stopped. “It’s not necessary. Now. If you.”

Nothing else came; a rare unfinished sentence.

“It’s what I want,” said John.

Sherlock’s eyes raked his face again, piercing, green. And then time swam slowly as long, clever fingers closed around John’s. Everything floated as that curly dark head bent to place one lingering kiss on John’s ring finger.

Sherlock pushed the metal band home cleanly.


	2. John's birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Johnlock)

John makes a fist, feeling the stretch and bite of his skin and nails against the palm of his hand. He squeezes his eyes tight shut at the same time and exhales deeply, trying to ease the ache in his chest.

Sherlock, supposedly arranging his mind palace in his armchair, watches John’s tense shoulders and clenched fist uneasily. A difficult day, obviously. He springs from his chair silently, long legs uncurling themselves easily.

“John?”

“Mmm?” John half-replies, taking refuge in peering fruitlessly into the fridge.

“I thought I’d make some tea.” He flicks the kettle on and peers over John’s shoulder. “Don’t touch the bottle on the middle shelf. I should probably – I’ll seal that better,” he adds, trying to shoo the other man out of the way and grabbing the milk. “Do you want a tea?”

John pivots slowly on the spot and stares at Sherlock from under lowered brows. “Why are you being so –” he flaps his right hand, while his left still clenches, unclenches.

Sherlock’s chin lifts haughtily for battle. “So what?” he inquires, eyes narrowed.

 _“Helpful,”_ sniffs John. “Barring the poison in the fridge, of course. You could’ve just sealed it properly the first time, then you wouldn’t’ve _had_ to warn me.”

Sherlock turns away to the boiling kettle, the long lines of his back exuding the very essence of don’t-give-a-damn. John grimaces behind him, rolling his eyes at himself. _Shit._

Sherlock makes two cups of tea (John’s first; it brews for a little longer), then adds milk to both, as well as sugar to his own. He stands over both the mugs for longer than he needs to.

That’s when he feels John’s right hand – tentative – flat against his back.

“I’m sorry,” sighs John. Sherlock is silent. John only normally presses his hand there when he’s had a few down the pub, or maybe at the end of a very long and trying case, when he can safely plead tiredness. Then sometimes he will usher Sherlock through a door or out of a taxi with more than usual pressure on his back. There is a long moment. John doesn’t remove his hand. “Shit day,” he adds.

Sherlock’s hands are flat on the countertop.

“Knock knock,” says a voice at the door, matching knuckles on wood to words, pushing the kitchen door inwards from ajar. John turns. Sherlock catalogues the feeling of his hand as it withdraws: not snatched away at the first sound of another male voice. Slow. Almost…reluctant?

He doesn’t turn. He unnecessarily stirs the tea again. Fills the kettle. Turns it on, in case Greg wants a cup.

“Alright mate,” grins Greg. “Happy Birthday.”

Sherlock can hear the strain behind John’s thanks. There’s the rustle of a card from Greg.

A pause. “You ready, then?” asks Greg.

“Ready?” returns John hesitantly.

“Yeah – we’re all – Mrs Hudson’s just finding her brolly and Molly and Mike are meeting us at the restaurant. Think Sherlock said that Bill guy and his wife are coming too – hopefully that’ll stop him buying us all shots like last time. Jesus, I still feel sick when I think about _that_ morning after.”

John inhales. “Sherlock?”

The detective is annoyed to find that his hands are less than dexterous as he makes Greg an unasked-for cup of tea.

“Oh,” says Greg, nonplussed. “He didn’t tell you. Is it – sorry – was it a surprise? Or –”

“That’s what people do, isn’t it?” says Sherlock. He manages a good impression of an airy wave as he goes to swirl into his coat. “On their _birthdays.”_ He imbues the final word with as much contempt as possible, but can’t help the pink tinge that suffuses his cheeks as he holds out John’s coat.

John is staring at him as if he’s just made the final deduction to solve a triple murder.

“You’re coming too?” he asks. “To the restaurant? With us?”

“I find myself hungry,” says Sherlock, offhandedly.

“Yoohoo, boys? Taxi’s here,” calls Mrs Hudson. Greg gives them both a grin and takes a large gulp of tea before clattering down the stairs. 

There’s a pause. And then they follow behind.

John ushers Sherlock out of the door with his hand flat against his back.

His hand moves to Sherlock’s shoulder, all the way down the stairs.


	3. Student Union

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Johnlock; Unilock / Alternate first meeting)

“You – yeah, you, what are you doing?” John elbowed his way through the press of people around him. There was no way they could hear him, the music and shouting and laughter was too loud, too insistent. He kept shouting, though, as he got closer. “Oi – what the fuck? What are you _doing?”_ His last word was emphasised as he grabbed the arm of a brawny lad who was in the process of forcing another shot practically down the throat of a very young-looking fresher.

The brawny lad’s equally burly mate looked up, face immediately squalling to a frown. “What’s it to you, mate?” he asked lazily, drawing down his brows. John looked him from head to toe, eyebrow raised. Posh voice, bad attitude, muscly as hell – not the rugby team though. Lacrosse?

“Well, _mate,”_ he returned, calmly, “I’m a volunteer Freshers’ leader for the week. And this lad looks like he’s had enough. I don’t think he needs any more help from you.”

“Well he’s eighteen and can drink what he likes,” drawled Brawny. “We’re just hanging out with our new mate _Sherlock_. He has some _very_ useful skills.” He sniggered and his pal joined in, smirking.

“Yeah, well, I think it’s my turn to hang out with Sherlock,” said John, pleasantly. He gave them a bland smile, squaring his stance just a little. “See you later,” he added, pointedly.

There was a moment of indecision as the two lads looked at each other. Then, lip curling, Brawny led the way to the bar.

John turned his attention to Sherlock, really looking at him for the first time. Wow. That cupid’s bow. Those curls. He took a breath. “Alright, Sherlock?” he asked, sticking his hand out to shake. “I’m John.”

“You are both nosy and interfering,” slurred Sherlock, struggling to focus on John’s eyes.

John tipped his head, grinning. _Fair._ “Yeah, well, the Student Union’s paying me a pittance to be,” he smiled. “What were those lads up to?”

“They’re from the same accommodation as me,” said Sherlock, pronouncing his words deliberately. “They found out I can…tell things about people. They wanted to know…” He took a laboured glance at John, and for the first time he looked a little flustered. “Which girls would be…receptive. And who is dealing drugs,” he added, biting his bottom lip.

John raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, well, I might be interested in knowing about that in a bit too,” he said wryly. “For now though – how many shots did they feed you?”

“Oh _I_ don’t know,” sighed Sherlock expansively, flapping his hand. “What does it matter?”

John looked at him again, sharply. “Listen, no offence,” he said, “but are you eighteen?”

“Yes,” replied Sherlock sulkily. He fished in the pocket of his tight black jeans and forced his driving license into John’s hand. “Here.”

 _Sherlock Holmes._ He was indeed eighteen. John handed it back to him. “Well, Sherlock Holmes,” he smiled, “you’re pretty wankered. Might be time to head home, or drink some water.”

“I see your saviour complex extends to busybodying as well as medical training,” rapped out Sherlock, eyes narrowed. “I’d’ve thought you’d be drinking with your rugby teammates, rather than nannying freshers. You obviously need money. There are more financially rewarding jobs you could be doing, even part time.”

John almost might not have thought Sherlock was drunk anymore, were it not for the fact that the boy stood up – already inches taller than John, although four years younger – and swayed dangerously on the spot for a few moments. John stared up at him, eyes wide. “You _can_ tell things about people,” he said, calmly. “So, what? Someone filled you in about my course, my sport and how strapped for cash I am?”

Sherlock Holmes just smirked annoyingly, then took an unsteady step to the side, a drunken attempt at evasive measures. John pivoted on the spot to watch him walk away.

At the door, Brawny and Burly intercepted the tall, slim boy again. Brawny slung one muscled, sweaty arm around his neck. They’d obviously been watching for the opportunity. Sherlock didn’t look happy to see them; he twisted angrily and in vain.

John made a decision and strolled closer. “Alright Sherlock, let’s go,” he said firmly. “Enough, lads,” he hissed to the other two boys. “Find your own dealers.” Sherlock snarled as he shook off Brawny, pushing his way angrily out of the Union.

The night air was cold and crisp. John jogged out behind Sherlock, and touched him lightly on the arm. “Hey – alright?”

Sherlock turned with wobbly grace and pulled his arm out of John’s grasp. “Yes, fine,” he snapped. He lisped a little on the ‘yes’. His cheeks heated and he stared at the floor.

John sighed. “Those two–”

“I knew one of them at school. For a while.” Sherlock tipped his gaze up to the stars. “One of my schools,” he muttered. “We were not… _friends.”_ The word comes out bitterly.

“Bad luck being in halls with them,” said John. “I’d say they don’t have your best interests at heart.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow wryly and they both laughed, just a little. Their gazes tangled and John felt suddenly, intensely awkward.

“So – that stuff – my course, money, rugby, dealers…”

“Easy,” said Sherlock, rather smugly. “People see, but they do not observe.”

John watched him for a moment. “So what did you _observe?”_

“The dealers are easy to spot. Anyone with half a brain could pick them out from the way they frequent certain areas, move often, meet for short periods of time with a varied selection of people – unlikely all to be friends, given that people tend to cluster together in small, relatively unchanging groups. Unfortunately Travers and Morton do not have anything approaching half a brain to share, let alone each. You, however, were more interesting. You are clearly in need of money, since your clothes and shoes – though not outdated or shabby – are certainly well-worn and well-mended. Your jeans have been patched and sewn up, very neatly, in two separate places. Your shoes are clean and polished – quite rare in our age group – but I can see that the soles and heel have been mended by a professional. You have chosen to work during Freshers’ week, which would otherwise be a week of holiday for you, given that you are obviously a third-year medical student. Clearly, as previously mentioned, there are much more lucrative jobs you could carry out during the summer holidays, and I suspect that you gave up the final week of some higher-paying employment so that you could act as a Freshers’ leader. Obviously you see yourself as having a duty to the university and to new students – you are morally driven and like to think you can help people. How do I know you are pursuing a course in medicine? Your university ID badge, which as a Freshers’ leader you are required to wear on that ugly orange lanyard around your neck, proclaims the fact loudly. And for the rugby – the distinctive muscle development in your shoulders and thighs is impossible to mistake.” Sherlock took a deep breath, looked John straight in the eyes with a flash of triumph, then turned pink.

 _Huh. Thighs. So._ John’s brain was parsing through the torrent of words he’d just heard. “Wow,” he said. “That was amazing.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock, and wobbled dangerously on his feet. He transferred his gaze from John’s left shoulder to the pavement.

“I forgot I had my badge on,” said John, digging his hands into his jeans pockets.

“Mmm,” said Sherlock.

“So are you studying…biology?” asked John. He regretted the words as they came out of his mouth. Somehow, Sherlock Holmes’s cheeks got even pinker.

“Chemistry,” mumbled Sherlock.

“Oh,” said John.

There was a pause.

“So you’ll be using the labs?” asked John.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, long dark eyelashes sweeping onto his flushed cheeks.

“Ah. Me too,” returned John. “So I might…see you there. Then.”

“I – yes,” said Sherlock. “It’s possible.” He attempted a nonchalant shrug.

John examined his own shoes. “OK. Good,” he said.

The pause felt terribly long, this time.

“So I–” said Sherlock.

“You should–” said John.

They tangled gazes, and each huffed a laugh.

“–think I’ll get back,” finished Sherlock.

“–get home safely,” added John.

“Right,” they both said.

They looked at each other for another long moment, and then Sherlock took a step back, and John shuffled a turn towards the Union. A couple more steps.

“You know,” said John, heart hammering, “I should take your number. So I can check. And in case I don’t.”

“Don’t…”

“See you. At the lab. I mean – so I can.”

Sherlock Holmes’s eyes were wide and green in the moonlight. John thought he might be choking on his own heartbeat. And then the boy held out a pale, long-fingered hand. John stared at it stupidly. “Phone,” said Sherlock, impatiently. But John saw his hand shaking, just a bit.

Their fingers brushed as he handed over his phone. Sherlock called himself from John’s mobile and passed it back.

They smiled, a little awkwardly, a little conspiratorially.

“See you around, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Goodnight, John Watson.”


	4. Two-thirty AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Established relationship)

_Two-thirty. Good grief._

It’s been some time since Mycroft last had to stay at the office for two nights in a row, but this was unavoidable. His eyes are hot and tender with tiredness. He can tell that his steps are not as steady as they could be climbing the stairs of his building. Security nods at him, a sympathetic half-smile to another night owl.

He pushes off his shoes by the front door, and hears the low murmur of the television from the living room. Greg is asleep on the sofa, hugging a cushion. The flickering blue from the screen strikes lights in his silver hair. His bottom lip is trapped beneath the upper.

Mycroft can’t trust himself to sit down. The temptation to fall asleep next to Greg, right here, is almost overwhelming. He bends his tired muscles stiffly, and runs his hand through Greg’s hair.

Greg smiles gently before he even opens his eyes. “Tried to wait up,” he mumbles.

Mycroft cannot stop the naked fondness in his tone. “I informed you I would be late.”

Greg’s eyelashes flutter and he gives a lopsided grin. “Yeah, the day before yesterday.”

Mycroft gives a huff of amusement. “Bed?”

“Please.” Greg’s eyes aren’t even properly open, but he takes Mycroft’s hand when it’s offered. “Missed you.”


	5. Pancakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Established relationship / Fluff / Pancakes)

“Why did you let me oversleep?” Mycroft blinks drowsily at the screen of his phone as Greg comes in, carrying a cup of coffee.

Greg puts the mug down on the bedside table and sits next to his boyfriend, strong tanned fingers planted in the centre of Mycroft’s pale chest. “Well you have to sleep sometime. And I don’t think it counts as oversleeping when it’s only 9am on a Sunday. That’s not even a lie-in.”

“It is for me.”

“Yeah, well, that says it all. Drink your coffee, if you’re so keen on waking up.” His brown eyes crinkle with amusement as Mycroft raises an eyebrow at him.

“You succeeded in getting the coffee machine to work.”

“Ha! Eventually.”

“Did you find everything for breakfast?”

“I haven’t had breakfast yet. It’s still only 9am.”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitches with amusement, and he hauls himself up to sit back against the headboard. He takes an appreciative sip of coffee.

“I did _make_ breakfast for us though, including some pancakes.” Greg grins and runs his fingers softly down Mycroft’s side. “My favourite.”

Mycroft nods. “There is fruit and yoghurt too?”

“Yeah, ’course, but go on. Just have one pancake. For me.” Greg shuffles closer to place a kiss on Mycroft’s shoulder. His palm is flat against the other man’s ribcage, fingertips following the slight indentations.

Mycroft raises his eyebrow again. “Your attempts to swell my already overlarge stomach are baffling.”

“Your stomach is perfect and I love it. Shut up.”

“‘Shut up’?” Mycroft has both eyebrows raised now.

“Yup,” says Greg, unrepentantly. “No-one tells you to shut up at work because you’re the boss, but someone has to sometime. And it might as well be me.” He grins and slides his hand down to caress Mycroft’s stomach. “Now, I’m going to kiss your stomach. So just…shush.”

“What about the pancakes?”

“I’ll heat them up in a bit.”


	6. Coffee chocolate chip brownies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Established relationship / Mild Angst / The Holmes Brothers)

Greg’s hair is tousled and his eyes are bleary as he strolls into the kitchen. Saturday morning, and this time he was the one late home last night, a case necessitating the cancellation of their dinner plans.

Mycroft’s standing at the breakfast bar, cutting precisely straight lines across a baking tin of –

“Oh, wow, what’s this?” asks Greg, sliding his hand around Mycroft’s waist and leaning his head against his shoulder. “Looks amazing. _Smells_ amazing. Can I have one for breakfast?”

“No,” warns Mycroft, warding off Greg’s hand as he reaches for a brownie. That’s when Greg registers the tension in Mycroft’s body, the tightness of his voice.

Greg shifts on his feet a little, glances obliquely at his lover’s profile. “’S'alright gorgeous, I won’t steal,” he says gently. “What are they?”

“Coffee chocolate chip brownies,” murmurs Mycroft, tucking his chin in a little, as though he feels foolish just saying the words.

“Mmm,” hums Greg, squeezing Mycroft around the waist and placing a gentle kiss on his shoulder. He steals another oblique glance at Mycroft’s expression. “We could pop by Baker Street in a bit,” he says cautiously. “Drop them off. For Rosie’s birthday.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mycroft’s eyelashes flutter, and knows he’s got it right. His heart clenches. Mycroft and Sherlock’s relationship is never easy. “She’ll love them,” he adds gently, speaking into the fabric of Mycroft’s crisp white shirt. Trust _him_ to be able to make brownies at five in the morning without getting a speck of cake mix on his pristine outfit.

“I have told Sherlock several times that it is most unwise allowing such a small child to consume caffeine,” says Mycroft, turning his head further away so that Greg can no longer observe his expression. “She does enjoy coffee, however.”

Greg nods, lips still soft against Mycroft’s shoulder. “Right,” he says. “I bet you haven’t eaten breakfast yet, and I’m starving. Didn’t get a chance to eat dinner last night, everything went to hell after I had to cancel on you. I’m going to have a quick shower. You get breakfast on the table?”

Mycroft nods, and Greg can feel the relaxation of tension in his lover’s body. _He’s been in here for hours, overthinking and worrying while he bakes,_ he thinks fondly, a little sadly. Mycroft brushes his long, elegant fingers over the back of Greg’s, and it is an eloquent _thank you._

On his way to the shower, Greg texts John.

**Sure you’ve already got Rosie a cake but Mycroft got up early to make her brownies. Think we could risk the brothers in the same room for a few minutes? :) G**


	7. Father's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Johnlock / Mystrade / Parentlock)

Rosie’s tiny hands are hot and eager, waiting for the envelopes. Mycroft, crouching, passes them to her from the inner pocket of his jacket with stern solemnity. She grins at him, unsubtly delighted with their complicity. As she turns away, Greg offers Mycroft his hand to rise.

Sherlock blocks the light at the right-hand window, choosing the room’s furthest space, as ever when his brother visits. Hands busy with his violin – not playing – were Rosie not here, he would be scraping the strings in a cacophany of unwelcoming noise.

John, on the sofa, makes wide eyes as his daughter gives him the smudged envelope. “Daddy,” she says gleefully as she places it into his waiting hands. Inside ‘To Daddy, Happy Father’s Day!!!!! I love you, Rosie’ wobbles across the page. It looks as though the apostrophe may have been added later. The front of the card is a drawing of two men and a small girl at the park. The ducks are terrifyingly large.

John chuckles and looks up, ready to praise Rosie for her artwork, but she is at the window. Sherlock stares down. Rosie stares up. The violin _thocks_ onto the table more carelessly than John has ever heard. Sherlock takes the envelope, and stray glitter from the front of the card dances like dust motes in the afternoon rays at the window. Sherlock blinks, and blinks.

“Daddy?” Rosie sounds less sure, now, and John gets up from the sofa to take her hand. Her expression is inquiring, a little worried.

“It’s okay,” says John, lifting her up. “It’s okay,” he repeats into her hair, the soft baby skin at her temple. “He’s just thinking.”

“Is he in his mind palace?”

“I suppose – he could be. Like that, maybe.” John’s other hand finds Sherlock’s upper arm, a careful touch to the fabric of his shirt. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s blinks are more like coming alive, now, and Rosie’s bottom lip is a little wobblier than it could be.

“Didn’t you like the card, Papa?” asks Rosie, and it’s the first time she’s said it, and John is suddenly more aware of every atom of his body than he has ever been before. The back of Sherlock’s hand against his chest is a trail of fire and then Rosie is lifted from him. 

“It is a work of art,” Sherlock says seriously, and she curls close to his chest. “What a lot of glitter,” he adds admiringly, eyes catching his brother’s.

“Anthea is having my suit dry-cleaned for the second time,” says Mycroft drily.

They stand close, and no-one can see, but Mycroft’s hand is in the small of Greg’s back, thumb describing gentle circles.

John, looking anywhere but at Sherlock, watches Greg’s complicated expression, the way his eyes follow Rosie and – and her Papa.

Rosie tells Sherlock how much glitter was in Mycroft’s kitchen by the time she’d finished making her card.

“Tea?” asks John, shoulders back, spine straight.

Greg joins him. He takes a little too long to fetch the milk from the fridge. John holds the kettle’s handle through the last few moments of the boil, soothed by the familiar rumble, the predictable _click._

“You’ve not thought about it?” John’s hand is steady as he pours four mugs of tea. No-one actually assented to it in the summer warmth of the central London flat. Still.

Greg glances at him, then away. His voice is tight, an attempt at his usual chuckle. “Too late for all that.”

John concentrates on pouring the milk, then passes two mugs to Greg. Picking up two himself, he turns and looks at the double silhouette in the window.

“It’s not.” He half-shakes his head, and flicks his eyes to Greg’s. “It’s not.”


	8. “I'm not going to stop poking you until you give me some attention”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Established relationship / Fluff)
> 
> Prompt fill: the prompt was “I'm not going to stop poking you until you give me some attention.”

“Gregory. My sincere apologies, but an emergency has arisen and I will not be able to make our dinner engagement tonight. I hope that your day has not been unduly stressful, and shall no doubt see you at home –” there’s a short hesitation, and Mycroft apparently decides against putting a timeframe estimate on the current crisis. “My apologies again.” His voice is tight, harried; the _click_ of the message ending, and Greg obeys the instruction to save it.

He sighs and drops his mobile onto the desk, running his hands over his face and through his hair. They’ve barely seen one another this week – mostly his fault, a truly unpalatable murder that’s kept him out of the house for all but the quickest of showers and change of clothes, and a trip to Manchester for Mycroft that covered the only evening Greg actually _did_ manage to spend at home. (Well, he arrived home just before nine, anyway.)

They had arranged via text to cook dinner together on Friday night, and Greg had been anticipating it eagerly. It was not even as though he had been expecting them to have sex – his own bone-deep exhaustion made it unlikely. But just to be able to have a glass of wine together as they cooked, watch Mycroft’s deft hands as he chopped the vegetables, wrap his arms around his boyfriend and inhale the scent of his skin, stay close as they worked and then sit at right-angles at the table to eat, legs and feet pressed together… To go to bed together, hold Mycroft close with a hand in the centre of his pale chest, and get a full night’s sleep – _oh God, yes_ – and to wake up warm, and sleepy, and _together…_ A distant, and apparently an impossible, dream.

Greg leans his head on his hand and surveys the paperwork in front of him with bleary eyes. Then he picks up his phone and texts:

**No worries gorgeous. Hope it goes well. Good luck, and see you at home later hopefully. Keep me updated, yeah? G xxx**

He doesn’t really expect an answer, given Mycroft’s tone in the answerphone message. He stretches, yawns, and goes to fetch himself a coffee. On returning, he is surprised to find a text waiting.

**I love you. MH**

Hmm. Greg gives a wry smile. Possibly the crisis is worse than he’d assumed. Nuclear attack on London? Full-scale international war about to break out?

**Love you so much. G xxx**

*

The dinner he eventually ‘cooks’ (spinach and ricotta ravioli from a packet that takes two minutes to boil, a bag of salad and some pesto sauce) is a sad comparison to what he and Mycroft would have made. But Greg puts together a second plate for Mycroft anyway, and places it in the fridge, just in case he manages to get home at all tonight. Morosely, he eyes the bottle of red that they would have opened, but decides not to bother. He’s so tired he can hardly think, anyway. What’s the point of drinking? He’s not going to need the help passing out tonight.

With the aid of far, far too much coffee, he’d managed to get all the paperwork from their murder case off his desk and onto the Super’s for approval before he left. As a result he feels like he can take the whole weekend off, for once. _Come on Mycroft, please come home._

He makes it through the News at Ten, and manages to force himself to his feet when it’s over instead of just curling up on the sofa. Exhaustion overwhelms him as he strips off and crawls into bed. He falls asleep hugging Mycroft’s pillow.

*

He doesn’t wake until just after ten, and it’s obvious immediately that Mycroft has not been home. He blinks in the startlingly bright morning light, briefly buries his head in Mycroft’s pillow, then rolls onto his back with a sigh, reaching for his phone on the bedside table.

**[06:52] Still at the office. Did you sleep well? MH**

**[09:37] I hope this means you are still asleep. I am afraid I still have no estimate for when I will be home. MH**

Greg chews his bottom lip.

**Yeah, fast asleep until just now! You going to pop home for a shower and change at any point? Want to be here if you are. G x**

With a groan, he levers himself out of bed and pulls on pyjama trousers. He does a circuit of the bedroom, making sure he picks up all the dirty laundry, then pads into the kitchen and stuffs it all in the washing machine. Eventually he had succumbed to Mycroft sending out his shirts and suits for dry-cleaning along with his own, but there are still things he puts in the wash every week. He yawns and stretches as the wash cycle starts.

_(“Mycroft, I’m not sending my boxers for dry-cleaning. They’re only from M &S. They’re machine-washable! That’s the whole point of them! Who the bloody hell gets their pants dry-cleaned, anyway?”_

_“If you would accede to my suggestion that you invest in some undergarments in appropriate fabrics –”_

_“My boxers are made of cotton, Mycroft! That’s an absolutely normal boxer fabric. Only one of us in this relationship needs fancy silk pants that probably cost the same as a week’s-worth of my wages. And, gorgeous, that’s emphatically you.”_

_“I should of course buy them for you, Gregory.”_

_“Nonsense. Anyway, I don’t know why you’re bothered, you don’t seem to mind my boxers when I’m walking around in them.”_

_“Just because you have an extraordinarily attractive behind, Gregory, does not mean that –”_

_“‘Extraordinarily attractive’, eh?”_

_“Gregory –”_

_“Why don’t you come over here and say that again?”_

_“Only if you take those Marks and Spencer monstrosities off first.”_

_“Deal.”)_

The rest of the memory is extremely pleasant indeed. Greg grins to himself and reaches down a mug, moving over to the coffee machine. He’s suddenly breathless with the need to have Mycroft’s arms around him.

*

The day is pleasant enough, in its way. After cleaning up the kitchen and hanging out the washing, Greg has a late breakfast of poached eggs on toast and changes into his running gear. He means to do his 5k route, but it’s a nice day, and he still has no messages from Mycroft, so he pushes on to the 10k. He’s knackered by the time he gets back, and takes a long relaxing bath.

Usually Mycroft is the bath fan in their relationship, but Greg’s come round to them more now he has someone to share them with. He listens to his audiobook, playing with the bubbles, and briefly considers sending Mycroft some pictures to tempt him home…

No, unfair. The man has to work.

His phone buzzes, and Greg dries his hands before picking it up.

**It seems that a brief trip to Brussels is now necessary. I hope to be able to return home after that. MH** ****

“Brussels? Oh bloody hell,” grumbles Greg crossly. He pulls the plug out of the bath and stands up, towelling himself off none too gently. _Stop being such a git. You were out of the house three nights in a row this week._

He texts Sally and Phil, asking if they fancy a pint tonight, marginally cheered when they both accept.

**Any idea what time you’ll be home? G x** ****

Pulling on jeans and a grey t-shirt, Greg listens for the buzz of his phone on the bedside table.

**It is unpredictable at the moment, but I shall keep you informed. I am sorry, Gregory. MH**

The corners of Greg’s mouth tug down, just a little, as he reads.

**Gorgeous, it’s your job. Don’t apologise. Just dying to see you, because I miss you. Going to the pub with Sally and Phil in a bit, but will be home as soon as you are. Let me know. G xxx**

*

They drink. They drink quite a lot, and they have a laugh, and Sally bemoans how _utterly fucking in love_ he is, and the fact that she can’t find anyone she feels like that about, not like him and his tall posh bastard.

And he is in love. So, so, fucking in love, and he just wishes he could see him, because it hurts now, not being held by him.

Closing time comes, and then the chip van, and by the time he stumbles through the front door and collapses onto the sofa, he falls asleep squinting at the screen of his phone.

*

“Gregory?”

The grey morning light is brutal. Greg screws his eyes shut, and groans. Must be early. Not enough sleep. Dizzy.

“Gregory.”

“No.”

“Oh, charming. Gregory. Drink this water.”

“’M’very tired, Mycroft.”

“As am I. I am, however, less drunk.”

“Might be drunk. Might be hungover. ’M not sure yet.”

“Take the water.”

“Urgh. Ow! What’you doin’?”

“Gregory. I am not going to stop poking you until you give me your attention.”

“Don’t have any.”

“Fine. Have this water instead. I shall make us coffee.”

With an almighty groan, Greg rolls over on the sofa, cracks one eye open and takes the glass. His neck feels horrendous, but it’s nothing to the pounding, vertiginous pressure in his head. After several sips of water – which he fears may soon prove to have been a mistake – he manages to open both eyes. His voice is rough and deep. “Coffee? Don’t you need sleep? I need sleep. Let’s go and sleep.”

Mycroft looks exhausted. His eyes are darkly shadowed and his usually impeccable posture has given way enough for him to lean against the kitchen counter as the coffee machine hums.

“I am afraid I shall need to complete just a couple of matters in the study. It should take an hour or so. After that – yes, sleep would be incredibly welcome.” He passes a long-fingered hand delicately over his eyes.

Greg’s heart clenches. This man, willing to work and work past the point of endurance. How he loves him.

“Right. Okay.” Bracing himself, he stands up. “Gimme ten minutes. ’M gonna have a quick shower – prob’ly smell like a brewery – then’ll come’n drink my coffee in the study with you.” He gulps down the rest of his pint of water.

A cool shower and cleaning his teeth make him feel significantly more human, as do a couple of ibuprofen and another pint of water. When he pads into the study, he finds Mycroft, pale and exhausted-looking but focused on his laptop.

“Hi gorgeous.” Mycroft looks up, and Greg kneels down beside him, gently turning his office chair so he can get closer, between his knees. “I know you’re busy, but a hug’d be lovely.”

“Mmmm,” murmurs Mycroft as Greg’s arms close tightly around him. Mycroft relaxes, tension flowing out of him, and to Greg that feels like a reward in itself.

He buries his nose in Mycroft’s neck and breathes him in. “Missed you,” he mumbles. “Sorry it’s been such a ridiculous week.”

“I am sorry too, Gregory.” Mycroft nuzzles his cheek into Greg’s damp hair, then pulls back and leans down for a kiss.

“Thank you,” whispers Greg, as they part. “Now get on with it. Sooner you’re done, sooner we can go to bed and get some proper sleep. I’m going to sit over here and read the news on my phone. Try and work out which particular crisis you averted.”

Mycroft gives him a quick half-smile, and turns reluctantly back to his laptop.

“Get you another coffee, gorgeous?”

“Please, Gregory.”

“’Course.”


	9. Angelo's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Johnlock / Pining / Pre-relationship)

John puts on the shirt Sherlock likes, navy, soft, with grey pearlescent buttons. Unflashy, but nice quality. He thinks Sherlock likes it, anyway; he’d picked it out once when John was running late for a crime scene (‘running late’: had been shouted at in the shower that _there’s been a murder, come on, come on John!)._ He’d found shirt and trousers lying waiting on his bed when he hurried back up the stairs, rubbing roughly at his hair with the towel – _and he hadn’t picked out boxers for me, had he, he stopped short at that, odd because none of that stuff matters to him, does it, personal space or privacy or –_

It’s only dinner, quiet, Angelo’s, same as a hundred times before. ‘Candle for you and your date’, the old joke, the same since the first time John _made_ it a joke…

The tortelloni, the prawn linguine, a tiramisu that John pretends he’s sick of after four spoonfuls because Sherlock wouldn’t order it otherwise. Only over coffee does Sherlock say, “good choice.”

“Mmm?” John’s forgotten by now. He’s comfortable, hand curled warm around the coffee cup, ankles crossed and stretched out under the table. He licks his lips.

Sherlock’s eyes are dark argent-green in the candlelight. “Of shirt. Good choice.” His voice is crisp.

“Ah.” John looks up and away, lips pushed out in a tightly-controlled disguise of a smile, or a grimace, or something – something revealing, anyway.

He lets the feeling settle, undeniable, the same as so often lately. He accepts it now, lets his heart hover in his chest, tiny sips at _Sherlock noticed, he noticed._

It’s just the way things are.


	10. Peony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Established relationship / Fluff / Greg is a romantic)

When Mycroft returns from his lunch meeting, there’s a note on his desk.

_Hi gorgeous – I was in your part of town today and grabbed a quick sandwich in the park. Knew you’d be out but someone had picked this flower ^ then left it on the grass and it’s pretty so it made me think about you. (No, I didn’t pick it, I’m an officer of the law you know.) Don’t stay too late tonight. I miss you. Love you. xxx_

Next to the note, a peony is slowly unfurling its rumpled petals in one of Mycroft’s shallow bone-china teacups. He smiles, brushing one long, slender finger over the soft, waxy ruffles of the flower.

*

When Mycroft pads on socked feet into the kitchen of their flat, he finds Greg chopping peppers and listening to the six o’clock news. Mycroft slides his hands around Greg’s hips and then his waist, nuzzling his neck, lips soft against golden skin.

“Mmm,” sighs Greg happily. “Well this is earlier than I’d hoped.” He puts down the knife and leans his head back on Mycroft’s shoulder for a kiss. “Ha. Let me turn this off, you don’t need to hear the news. Probably know it all inside out and backwards anyway.”

Mycroft breathes him in, lips and nose in his silver hair.

Greg turns in his arms and pushes up for a proper kiss. “C’mere.”

They smile into one another’s eyes, then lose moments in the sweet, languorous give-and-take, push-and-pull of kisses.

“Why so early home, mmm?” asks Greg, a breathless edge to his voice. “I was going to get dinner ready.”

“You are a romantic, Gregory Lestrade.”

Greg smiles against Mycroft’s lips. “You’re worth it, Mycroft Holmes.”

“Bed.” Mycroft commands, soft kisses at the corner of Greg’s mouth.

“Hmm,” hums Greg, approvingly. Carefully, he draws the peony from Mycroft’s buttonhole. “Let’s just put this in water.”


	11. Ivy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Johnlock / Pining / Pre-relationship / Balletlock / Friends to Lovers / Magical Realism elements)
> 
> Inspired by @mikabee's beautiful fan video: http://mikabee.tumblr.com/post/162369728462/beyoncé-halo-i-knew-i-had-to-make-a-video-with

Once, John read a book where a woman had a disease – he can’t remember the name, now – that made her believe she was turning to glass.

Since he’s known Sherlock, the same impression steals upon him now and then; in the moments when Sherlock’s gaze, clear and grey and far, far too _knowing,_ settles upon him.

Living together, working together, and too many individual moments when one man – an extraordinary man – might look at another, and _understand_ – might see through his fragile, shivered skin as easily as glancing through a window.

So much time, and the truth is that if you looked through John Watson’s chest – hairline cracks radiating out from the badly-mended shoulder – you might see only ivy, pressed against the glass, the tendrils of Sherlock Holmes’ hold upon his heart (call it what it is, John, _you coward,_ love – Jesus Christ, _love)._ Growing, year after year, moment after individual moment, curling, marauding tendrils of ivy, winding inexorably around his heart until it is knotted, snarled, forever.

Darker, a deeper, thicker jungle of ivy every day, filling John’s chest until sometimes it feels impossible to breathe.

There are times when he thinks Sherlock is turning to glass, too. At the wedding, on the dancefloor, in Baskerville as he drove – glance, away, and back, silence heavy, waiting – if he could just see, could just see beneath those _tight bloody shirts_ –

(Be honest, Watson, that’s not exactly because you want to check if he’s made of glass, is it? Wry corner smile, and flick your eyes away. _Coward.)_

But when John finds Sherlock playing the violin, feet relaxed in first position, the tendrils clench tighter. His parents made Harry do ballet, for years, and she hated it – _hated_ it. She taught John first position at home once, and the look on his dad’s face told him _that_ wasn’t to be tried again. Funny, in the army he always thought about first position as they fell into parade rest.

And at the club, Mycroft passes him some files for a recalcitrant Sherlock, but before John turns to go the words are out of his mouth; and there’s the cold flick of that Holmes eyebrow, but then: “yes. He used to be quite good,” and the tightness around Mycroft’s mouth means that that was a thing from before, _before_ – university.

There’s no reason for it, nothing logical, but John wonders whether this might be the thing that cracks him at last: the final brushing touch that shatters his delicate construction of glass and bone and blood with a sharp, splintered whisper.

221b, and the balletic nature of Sherlock’s grace is evident in every line of his body – how did he not see it before? John’s chest is tight, choked, and his hand clenches and _thank God that’s not glass_ –

The violin playing stops, and the silence spins between them, a glowing, malleable, golden thread, and suddenly delicacy and shattering and a choked, knotted, snarled ivy heart is not enough – _it’s never been enough, has it, you fucking berk_ – but just a few steps are what have to change, and he takes them.

Sherlock’s eyes are clear and grey and his gaze sees right through John Watson, but that’s okay because John is nothing but blood and bone and a beating heart, and Sherlock’s expressions are transparent too, like sunlit water rippling over stones.


	12. Big Ben

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Johnlock / Pre-relationship)

It takes Sherlock a couple of days to work out that something’s _off._

It’s the tiniest of things, and he hasn’t been able to place it, but something in the web, the pattern, the shivering gauze of _his London_ is wrong.

It’s a day and a half of dressing-gown depression, and then John suggests a walk, and Sherlock agrees without enthusiasm, but anything would be better than this.

And when he stops in the centre of Westminster bridge, hands in his hair and “wrong, wrong, wrong,” on his lips, John barely glances about worriedly for others’ reactions –

“Oh, that’s it,” he says gently. “Sherlock, you could’ve just asked me.”

“What. What?” asks Sherlock, because it’s still not quite _there,_ in his head.

“They’ve switched it off,” says John, tongue passing quickly over his bottom lip as Sherlock stares at him with distracted intensity. “Big Ben. It’s going to be for a while. Couple of years.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow flicks, and something in him, twanging like a wire, relaxes. “Ah. I – oh.” He turns, and tries to ruffle his curls subtly back into shape.

John gives a quick grin that he hides before Sherlock turns back. “It’ll be odd,” he says casually. “Different.”

Sherlock nods tersely, and they turn towards home. Or dinner, somewhere, probably.


	13. Bond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Flirting / Pre-relationship)

“Mr Holmes!”

Mycroft’s spine stiffens. Slowly, he turns. _Damnation._ Devastatingly attractive, as always, but this time wearing black tie, and carefully shaved. Haircut, too, by the looks of it. Briefly, he mourns the loss of the long, scruffy silver hair Lestrade had been sporting the previous week, when Mycroft had picked up Sherlock and John from their latest escapade. _Dark, soft brown eyes. Damn, damn, damn._

“Detective Inspector,” he says superciliously, lengthening his neck, tipping his head to the side. “I had not expected to see you –”

“– at a posh do like this?” finishes Lestrade, shooting him a grin. He runs a finger inside his collar, and Mycroft tries not to notice the soft, golden skin of his neck. “Just here accompanying my old mate Karen. She climbed the greasy pole and gets asked to all these things. Lowly DI like me’d never normally be invited to stuff like this,” he smiles, gesturing slightly at the glittering ballroom.

 _On a date,_ thinks Mycroft. Something in his chest tightens at the thought, and he valiantly tries to ignore it. “I see,” he says, crisply. He’s just opening his mouth to make his excuses when Lestrade interrupts.

“’S’pect you’re working, are you?” he asks, taking a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing tray, and handing one to Mycroft. “Shaking hands, taking names, threatening people?” he sips his champagne. Brown eyes, crinkled with amusement, twinkle at Mycroft over the edge of the glass.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. _Flirtatious? Surely not. Drunk? Does not seem it, but_ – “I am sure I do not know what you mean, Detective Inspector. I never threaten.”

“Sorry. What _is_ it called, then? A subtle air of menace?”

Mycroft cannot help returning Lestrade’s warm smile, just a little, the merest twitch at the corners of his lips. “Perhaps.”

Lestrade grins. “Well, you’re dressed for it, anyway. You look like James Bond.”

Mycroft ignores the way his stomach clenches, and calmly raises an eyebrow. “I am not sure I should call James Bond _subtle,_ Detective Inspector.”

“Nah, maybe not,” says Lestrade, taking another sip of champagne. “Looks good in a suit, though.”

Mycroft struggles to get his breathing under control for a few moments, during which time he witnesses Lestrade’s expression go from open and amused to guarded, and slightly worried. “Bond’s brand of diplomacy would certainly not be welcome in my profession,” he says quickly, hardly hearing what he’s saying. He takes a sip of champagne, mouth suddenly dry.

Lestrade’s eyes are cautious, but he gives a lopsided smile. “True. Bet you’re stuck here ’til the bitter end. Bond would’ve flounced out by now, with some hot young thing on his arm. Although.” He nods to where Anthea, wearing a plunging jewel-red ballgown, is talking composedly with a senior Minister.

Mycroft gives a quick flicker of a smile, and drops his gaze to the intricate pattern of the fine ballroom floor. _Ah. So that is it._ “I see,” he says, voice as neutral as possible. “My ineligibility as a Bond figure becomes still more glaring.”

There’s a brief beat of silence. Mycroft watches through his eyelashes as Lestrade gulps down the rest of his champagne. “Always wondered if you two were…” says Lestrade.

Mycroft’s head snaps up. “Why?” he asks, and his complete bafflement must be obvious.

Lestrade glances hurriedly up. “I –” he gestures ineloquently. “Sorry. Yeah. Stupid.”

Mycroft looks away across the dancefloor, stomach heavy. The taste of champagne has turned acid in his mouth. “She would appreciate being taken away from the Minister, I am sure,” he says flatly.

Lestrade clears his throat, but Mycroft keeps his gaze turned away, scanning the crowd.

“You know what,” says Lestrade, after a moment. “You were right. Bond’s not like you, not really. He’s more of a blunt instrument. Gets stuff done any way he can. More like a policeman, you might say.”

Mycroft half-raises an eyebrow, but does not turn to look into Lestrade’s eyes.

“Thought I might get out of here,” says Lestrade, and his voice is strange, perhaps a little breathless.

Mycroft nods tersely, mentally preparing his own reason for ending the conversation.

“D’you want to come with me?” asks Lestrade, and Mycroft’s head snaps round.

“I beg your pardon?”

Lestrade’s eyes are crinkled. Relief, apprehension and a kind of amused defiance are written all over his face. “Bond never leaves without someone good-looking on his arm.”

Mycroft blinks several times, tipping his chin up. His long fingers tighten around the champagne flute. He wishes he had his umbrella. There is an extended moment, during which the confused press of sounds in the ballroom seem to fade entirely away.

“My car is just outside, Detective Inspector.”


	14. Mycroft's birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Johnlock / Established Relationship / Mycroft's birthday / The Holmes Brothers)

“Afternoon tea?” says Sherlock, crossly, halting next to the table.

Greg stands up quickly, eyes flicking between John and Sherlock. “Yeah. Did you think I just hang out at the Dorchester all the time?”

“You are wearing your best suit,” says Sherlock. He sweeps Greg from head to toe with a look, then wrinkles his nose. “My brother clearly bought it for you.”

Greg rolls his eyes. “Mycroft may have advised, but I bought it myself, thank you very much.” Firmly, he sits down.

John motions Sherlock into a chair, sits down himself, and raises his eyebrows at Greg.

“It is Mycroft’s birthday,” says Sherlock, tiredly, a response to his unspoken query. “I assume this is some tedious attempt at family bonding by the new _boyfriend.”_

Greg looks at him calmly. “Tedious it may be, Sherlock, but as long as it’s not _horrible._ This was what Mycroft wanted, and he’d never _say so,_ would he, because he thinks you’d never agree to something like this –”

“I did not agree to it.”

“– but if you could find it in your heart to be nice – well, _neutral,_ to him, for an hour, on his birthday –”

“I do not have a heart.”

“You definitely do,” says John, and his voice is soldierly, dry, but he takes Sherlock’s hand under the table.

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“And just so you know,” mutters Greg, leaning forward, “I’m going to ask him to marry me later, so if you could try not to make him feel shit about himself, or me, before that happens, that would be great.”

John chokes slightly on air, and Sherlock freezes, blinking.

“Greg – fucking hell,” says John, slightly too loudly for the refined surroundings of the Dorchester’s tea salon.

At the other side of the room, Mycroft appears, being led to the table by a waiter.

“Sherlock, look at me,” says Greg urgently, and John gently shakes Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock blinks again and makes eye contact.

“I swear to _God,_ Sherlock, if you blurt out what I just told you, I’ll make sure you never see another murder scene again,” mutters Greg, dark brown eyes intense as Mycroft approaches.

Mycroft’s expression is as impenetrable as ever as he nears the table, but Greg can read his hesitation, his unsureness about the situation, in the lines of his body.

Mycroft folds himself elegantly into the remaining chair, and Greg takes his hand under the table, giving it a quick squeeze.

“Happy birthday, Mycroft,” says John, nodding pleasantly at him.

“Brother,” says Sherlock. He seems to get stuck at that. He still looks slightly dazed.

“Work alright?” asks Greg. Even though it’s a Saturday, Mycroft had been forced to go into the office for a few hours after Anthea had called him far too early in the morning with news of a crisis. _Interrupted what had been shaping up to be a really lovely birthday shag, as well._

Mycroft cuts his dark grey eyes to Greg’s, and squeezes his hand in return under the table. “Under control, for now, thank you.”

 _Thank God. He won’t have to go back to work after this. I can take him back to bed, and afterwards – well. Maybe he’ll agree to marry me. He will, won’t he? Probably? Christ, stop thinking about it, Greg, he can probably read you like a book_ –

The waiter returns to find out which tea they would like with their cakes, sandwiches and scones.

John asks Greg about the progress of a case they’d collaborated on a few weeks ago, and Greg’s complaints about the CPS last until the food starts to arrive.

“Is there anything else I can get you, gentlemen?” asks the waiter.

“Some honey, perhaps,” murmurs Mycroft. “For the scones.”

Sherlock presses his lips together.

“Certainly, sir.” There’s a beat of slightly awkward silence as the waiter leaves.

“Cake, Mycroft?” asks Sherlock, and his tone has just the barest edge of snark.

Greg turns to look at him, eyes narrowed.

“Since it is my birthday, I believe I shall indulge, yes, thank you Sherlock,” says Mycroft flatly.

“You always do,” mutters Sherlock, eyes defiantly on Greg’s.

John’s under-table kick is obvious to all.

“Well, after this morning I reckon you’ve got a few calories to catch up on, Myc,” says Greg brightly, squeezing Mycroft’s knee under the table. He doesn’t take his eyes off Sherlock. “Never got breakfast in the end, did you, gorgeous?”

“Sadly not,” says Mycroft, taking a sip of tea. “Some refreshment is most welcome, at last.”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose.

John spoons cream and jam onto a scone, then puts another scone on Sherlock’s plate. The waiter arrives with the honey, and John pushes it towards Sherlock’s plate.

“You could not take time off from starting world wars even on your _birthday,_ brother?” asks Sherlock, dripping honey onto his scone.

“Preventing, on this occasion, Sherlock,” says Mycroft mildly, and the corner of his mouth tips up just a little as Greg puts a gold-dusted fig and Earl Grey macaron on his plate. His eyes are gunmetal grey as he catches Greg’s eye. _  
_

_Thank you,_ Greg reads, easily. He smiles in return, and pushes his foot alongside Mycroft’s under the table.


	15. Ice Cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Established Relationship / Fluff)

“Come here, Gregory. It is starting.”

“I was making you a cuppa, Mycroft Holmes. Honestly, never satisfied,” Greg teases, putting the cup of tea down on the side table.

“Earl Grey?”

“'Course.”

There’s a curl of a smile at the edges of Mycroft’s lips as he holds his arms out for Greg.

“What have you got?”

“Popped into the little Waitrose on the way home. They’re doing Earl Grey ice cream at the moment.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow as Greg settles back against his chest, cradling the bowl of ice cream.

“Delicious, I am sure.”

“Mmm, ‘tis.”

Mycroft buries his nose in Greg’s hair, and gently kisses the top of his ear.

“D'you want a little taste?” asks Greg, holding up a spoonful. “Just to try.”

Mycroft licks the spoon and suppresses a hum of appreciation. “Very nice.”

They watch together, warm and relaxed, and every now and again, Greg holds out another spoonful.

It isn’t refused.


	16. “You okay? You seem a little off today”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Pre-relationship)
> 
> Prompt fill: “You okay? You seem a little off today”

“Oh god, here comes my brother, lumbering into view,” sighs Sherlock petulantly. He raises his voice slightly. “Mycroft. How is it possible, with the country in its current appalling state, that you have time to haul your corpulent and poke-nosed spectre around to haunt my every move?”

Mycroft straightens his spine and tips his chin up. “Sherlock,” he says tiredly. “I must beg your attendance at my office. Immediately.”

“I don’t work for you, Mycroft,” says Sherlock, turning away, hand brushing John’s as he goes.

“On this occasion, I shall not be involved,” says Mycroft. “Another government contact wishes to consult you.” He sighs. “Perhaps my absence will mean that you are able to effectively aid them in a matter which I understand is of the highest importance.”

Greg, hands buried in the pockets of his coat against the grey dawn chill, looks perplexedly at Mycroft. He can’t work out what’s different, but something is.

“Government work. Bound to be dull.”

“Sherlock. Please.” The manner is no longer the supercilious but impatient air of someone powerful whose last nerve is wearing thin. There is a faint note of genuine pleading.

Sherlock is regarding Mycroft too, a slight crease of confusion between his eyes. “Very well,” he says haughtily. “We’re taking your car.”

Mycroft gives a terse nod. Only when the long black car pulls away does he relax his posture slightly. He is reaching into the inner pocket of his coat – no doubt to retrieve his mobile phone – and seems unaware of Greg’s continued presence.

“You okay Mr Holmes?” he asks genially. “You seem a bit off today.”

Mycroft glances up, one eyebrow raised in surprise. Neither the look, nor his tone when he speaks, are as cutting as Greg has come to expect. “Quite well, thank you, Detective Inspector.” He sounds more tired than ever, and he words are immediately belied by the fact that he has to make a grab for his pocket handkerchief as a sneeze overwhelms him.

“Oh, damn. Cold, is it?” asks Greg, but he’s not really expecting an answer. Mycroft looks personally offended by having been forced to do something as human as sneeze.

Greg looks at him sympathetically. “You’ll be needing a lift, now,” he says, nodding after Mycroft’s black sedan. “Let me drop you off back at your office. Or home, if you’re feeling that crappy.” He gives Mycroft a grin, having long ago learnt that the only way to get anything like a human reaction out of the man is to keep treating him with relentless calm good humour. It works, slowly. _If only I had time to get him a bit more…warmed up each time. We seem to go back to zero every time we meet._

Heavily, Mycroft shakes his head. “I regret not,” he says, answering Greg’s implied question. “A full day of meetings.”

Greg shrugs. “Thought you might say that.” He holds out the keys to his car. “Go and get in the warm. Just be a minute.” He jogs off to the Starbucks nearby, which is just opening its doors.

When he climbs into the car, Mycroft is sitting quietly in the passenger seat, checking emails on his phone. Something about the tilt of his shoulders, the heaviness of his eyelids, though, shows Greg how crappy he must be feeling.

“Here,” he says, holding out a paper cup. “Get that down you.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, it says ‘Georg’ on the side because that’s what they went with when I said ‘Greg’.”

Mycroft looks at him perplexedly.

“You know – when they ask what your name is – to write on the…” he grins. “You haven’t been in a Starbucks in years, have you?”

“Good Lord, no.” The tone is ever so slightly snotty, but very self-aware.

Greg snorts a laugh. _I always forget how funny he can be._

“Oh, alright, you probably have minions to bring you coffee. I get it.” He urges the cup into Mycroft’s chilly fingers, and inserts the key in the ignition. “Better get going,” he says as he reverses, turns, and signals to go. “This one’s going to cause a good bit of paperwork, ’specially with your brother involved.”

Mycroft takes a sip from the cup, and makes a sound that Greg thinks might be a suppressed groan of appreciation.

“That alright?” he asks.

“Wonderful, Detective Inspector,” sighs Mycroft, and that’s how Greg _knows_ he must be feeling ill.

“Greg, please,” he says, pressing his advantage. He shoots Mycroft a quick smile as they stop at a traffic light. “Can’t do better than honey, lemon and ginger for a cold.”

Mycroft lets his eyelids droop a little, and concentrates on taking another sip. And it hits Greg: _shy. He’s shy, and he doesn’t really know what to say._ His stomach twists with a strong sense of protectiveness, and that’s strange, because those aren’t the feelings he’s used to having about the elder Holmes brother.

_Still. Not a bad thing, as such. Just interesting._

_Like the man himself._


	17. "Just take the jacket!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Johnlock / Established Relationship / Sherlock and Greg go night-swimming in the Thames because obviously that's a valid life choice)
> 
> Prompt fill: "Just take the jacket!"

“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice is full of pained concern.

“No need to worry, Mycroft, they’re both going to be okay – if only this bloody _idiot_ didn’t insist on taking a dip in the Thames every few months we’d be –”

“If only he did not insist on dragging my husband in with him,” says Mycroft, eyeing Sherlock with intense disfavour. “For goodness’ sake. It is the middle of the night. They could contract pneumonia. Where is the ambulance?”

“On its way,” says John stoically, crouching down next to Sherlock. “I’d be more worried about whatever stomach bug they’re probably going to get.”

“Oh for –” mutters Mycroft, rolling his eyes. He slips his coat off and attempts to put it around Greg’s shivering shoulders, where the sodden white shirt clings to his chilly, goosebumped skin.

“Up,” says John firmly to Sherlock. “You’re going to keep moving.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow as Sherlock obeys the army doctor without a word of complaint. He turns back to Greg, who is feebly resisting his attempts to wrap him in the coat.

“Gregory. Just _take the jacket.”_

“No chance. I know how much that thing cost,” says Greg, trying for a grin despite his chattering teeth. “And it’s more than my monthly pay cheque. Well, after tax,” he concedes, with a shrug.

Mycroft presses his lips together, and tries again to put the warm navy woollen coat around his husband’s shaking shoulders. He growls exasperatedly in his throat when Greg pushes it away again.

“Gregory Lestrade,” he hisses, crouching down so that he can seek out and hold his stubborn husband’s gaze. “I am putting this coat around you, whether you like it or not. Do not make me restrain you.”

“Kinky. We’re in public, you know.”

Mycroft fixes him with a baleful stare that is only _slightly_ undermined by the fact that he can’t keep the corners of his mouth from twitching when Greg is giving him _that_ cheeky grin.

They can hear the ambulance in the distance, now. Mycroft wraps the coat firmly around Greg’s shoulders, and slips his arm tight around his waist for good measure.

“Your dry cleaning company are going to curse you,” mumbles Greg, head tipped in towards Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Not as much as the Yard is going to curse _you_ when you take sick days with whatever horrifying form of dysentery you have managed to contract in your unplanned foray into wild swimming.”

Greg snorts slightly. “You’ll look after me,” he says, drowsily. “Y’always do.”

“I do, and I will,” murmurs Mycroft. “I must say, however, that I find an officer of the law to be a surprisingly high-maintenance husband.”

That wakes Greg up. He gives a sudden guffaw of laughter, and turns to look Mycroft in the eye. _“You’re_ complaining about _me_ being high-maintenance?” he grins, holding up the sleeve of the insanely expensive soft wool coat – and suddenly they’re both laughing, uncontrollably, sodden and shivering on a London kerb at three in the morning, ugly streetlight and the howl of approaching sirens lending the scene a bizarre, nightmarish quality.

“I love you,” says Mycroft, and it’s the first time he’s said it out loud, in public.

“I love you too,” says Greg, and he says it all the time, everywhere, but his eyes are soft and dark. They don’t let go of one another’s hands, even when the paramedics arrive.


	18. “who was that? oh… your cousin…”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Flirting / John is a tactless git honestly)
> 
> Prompt: “who was that? oh… your cousin…”

Greg uncaps two bottles of beer and passes one to John, who has just emerged from the bathroom. He leans back, kitchen counter hard across the base of his spine.

“Good to see you Greg,” smiles John.

“’S’becoming a tradition, this,” says Greg, as they clink beers. He nods around at the Christmas decorations, at Mrs Hudson’s mince pies, the mulled wine keeping warm on the stove. Mrs Hudson and Molly are playing with Rosie on the sofa, while Sherlock bows out something sweet and lively on the violin to make the little girl smile.

“Yeah,” smiles John, watching Sherlock. They both take a sip of beer, and Greg tries consciously to stop his eyes straying to where Mycroft is standing, next to the mantel, tall and elegant in a charcoal three-piece suit.

“Bloody hell,” murmurs John under his breath. “Who’s _that?”_ He nods to the man currently engaging Mycroft in conversation. He gives Greg a sidelong glance. “Must be related to you, right? Jesus, Greg, did you look like that – what, fifteen years ago?”

Greg runs a hand through his silver hair and gives as much of a grin as he can manage. “Cousin. Tom. People say we look a lot alike, yeah. Although I had the –” he motions to his hair, “– even then. Lives in Paris, but he’s over in London for work ’til Christmas Eve. Promised I’d look after him a bit, although I’m so up against it myself at work we’ve not seen each other much.”

John puffs out his cheeks and licks his lips. Sherlock is suddenly in the kitchen, large hand on the back of John’s neck. John smiles up at him, soft and relaxed.

“Admiring our guest, John?” asks Sherlock silkily.

John grins and slips his arm around Sherlock’s waist. “Never.”

Sherlock gives a small smile and leans slightly against him. “Well, I have to warn you, I think he is shortly to find out what it means to be verbally eviscerated. And then possibly physically deported.”

Greg and John turn to look at the scene. Mycroft and Tom continue chatting. They’ve switched to French.

“Why?” asks John.

“Flirting,” smirks Sherlock. “I distinctly heard him asking Mycroft for dinner. Repulsive.”

They watch the ongoing French conversation – animated on Tom’s side, coolly amused on Mycroft’s – for a long, anticlimactic moment.

“Don’t think that deportation’s on the cards,” chuckles John quietly. “Looks like Mycroft might’ve got himself a _date.”_

Sherlock wrinkles his nose forcefully and snaps his gaze back to his brother, indignation and disgust written all over his face.

Greg swallows hard around the bitter lump in his throat, and drains his beer. When he sees Sherlock begin to look round, he drops his gaze quickly to the floor, the only – partial, inadequate – protection he has ever devised against the man’s infuriatingly soothsayer-like ability to read minds. He puts the empty bottle down on the counter.

“Just gonna –” he mimes smoking, and heads for the door.

“You’ve given up,” says Sherlock, indignantly. They’d had a pact.

“Started again,” he says over his shoulder, as he escapes down the stairs.

He doesn’t, in fact, have any cigarettes. He sits morosely down on the doorstep and rests his arms on his knees, looking out into the soggy, chilly darkness of Baker Street. It’s late, and the night buses are less regular this near to Christmas. The eternal ambulance siren wails in the distance. He thinks about all the crimes probably in progress, and rubs his eyes. _I could plead a call from work. In fact, I could go in for a bit. Could do with getting through the paperwork on that Brixton case._

It’s not like it’s Tom’s fault. Just because _he’s_ been nursing a hopeless crush for years, without the stones to actually do anything about it. So many meetings with Mycroft, over so many years; summits about Sherlock essentially, at first, the business of keeping him alive. But then, once Sherlock had John, things became a little less clear-cut. Perhaps there was a little more – well, with Mycroft, the word ‘personal’ didn’t apply, but – a little more talk about things that weren’t Sherlock. A slight expansion of the conversation.

And Greg had known for a long time that he found Mycroft’s sharply-suited man of mystery act attractive. But what he hadn’t expected was to come to truly _like_ the man. There’s a tenacity in him he recognises at a bone-deep level: the grim determination to _keep going,_ no matter what. He respects that.

“Do you need a cigarette, Detective Inspector?” Half-silk, half-snark, Mycroft’s voice snaps Greg out of his reverie.

Greg rubs his eyes and exhales before answering. “What, your low-tar things? No thanks.” His voice is as light and humorous as he can make it.

“Low tar they may be, Inspector, but they still contain nicotine. So far, your attempt at smoking does not seem particularly successful.” Mycroft descends the steps and stands next to Greg.

Greg huffs a wry chuckle. “I’ve given up, really. Just – just taking the break anyway.” He stands up, and tries to think of something to say that isn’t ‘so, are you going on a date with my cousin?’.

“Anthea is waging a campaign to make me switch to vaping,” says Mycroft with a delicate shudder.

Greg snorts. “Oh, yeah, I can just see you surrounded in a cloud of forest fruit-flavoured nicotine,” he grins. “Really suits your image.”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitches, and he puts his hands in his trouser pockets. On him, the gesture never looks casual. _Elegant,_ thinks Greg. _Damn him._

“Rosie’s French is improving greatly,” says Mycroft, and Greg sneaks a sly glance sideways. Mycroft’s biting his bottom lip, a tiny unconscious gesture that makes Greg’s heart turn over. He looks quickly down at his own worn brogues.

“You been teaching her?”

“A few words only.”

 _Christ. She’s probably got the grammatical structure and plenty of vocabulary down pat, then._ “She trying it out on Tom?”

“Indeed.”

There’s an awkward moment of silence. _Truth is,_ Greg admits to himself, _Tom’s a much better fit for Mycroft. Banker. Multilingual. Loaded._ He sighs.

When Mycroft speaks, it is with a touch of hesitation that Greg has rarely heard in his voice. “It seems that your cousin and I have a business contact in common,” he says, cautiously. “We have arranged to set up a dinner with her when I visit Paris in the new year.”

Greg’s stomach flips, and he works hard to stop his eyebrows shooting up. “Yeah?” He pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. _Oh._ He cuts his eyes to Mycroft’s, and quickly away again. “So what’re your plans for Christmas?” he asks, awkwardly. An oblique glance tells him that Mycroft is frowning slightly.

“Dinner at our parents’ house. Sherlock, John and Rosie will of course be there too.”

“You back in London after, yeah?”

“Indeed. On Boxing Day, in fact.”

“Not much of a break.”

“Unavoidable.”

“Yeah. Well. I just wondered if –” he takes a silent, deep breath, looking fixedly at the red Number 18 night bus, idling at the stop across the road. “You don’t fancy going for a drink somewhere, do you? Once you’re back, I mean.” He has the urge to babble, to cover his embarrassment. _Shut up. Fuck, it’s a long time since I asked someone out._ His stomach squirms.

There’s a silence. Watching Mycroft from under his eyelashes, Greg witnesses a complicated play of surprise, confusion and indecision.

“Yes,” says Mycroft.

Standing on the bottom step of 221 Baker Street, Greg feels briefly dizzy. He takes a breath. “Right. The Friday, maybe? The twenty-ninth?”

Mycroft slips his phone out of his pocket and thumbs through the calendar. “Certainly.”

Greg saves the appointment in his own phone, fingers ever so slightly clumsy. “You’ll text me about a time, yeah? I know you’ll be busy.”

Mycroft gives a terse nod.

“Right,” says Greg lightly. “’M going to go and get one of Mrs Hudson’s mince pies.” He holds the door open for Mycroft, and definitely doesn’t stare at his arse on the way up the stairs.

Much.


	19. “aaah I can’t stop blushing… No you’re not helping at all”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Established Relationship / NSFW)
> 
> Prompt: “aaah I can’t stop blushing… No you’re not helping at all”

**[16:57]** Where are you, Detective Inspector? MH

 **[17:03]** _Mycroft, we_ _’ve been together for a year. You might dare to call me Greg. G_

 **[17:04]** Where are you? MH

 **[17:07]** _Press conference for the Nellan case. G_

 **[17:08]** You said Sergeant Donovan would be running that. MH

 **[17:10]** _She is, but I’m her supervising officer. I have to be here. Why? You home? G_

 **[17:10]** Yes. MH

 **[17:14]** _Early! Why? G_

 **[17:21]** Unexpected meeting cancellation. MH

 **[17:22]** _Are you sulking? G_

 **[17:28]** I do not sulk, Detective Inspector. MH

 **[17:31]** _I wish you had a fancy title, so I could let you know when we’re on formal terms too. You must have a PhD or two, right? I could call you Dr Holmes when you’ve done something wrong. G_

 **[17:32]** You can call me ‘Sir’. MH

 **[17:35]** _Ha. And now I know why you’re sulking. You came home horny, didn’t you? G_

 **[17:36]** Such vulgar terminology, Gregory. MH

 **[17:39]** _Oh well, at least I’m ‘Gregory’ again. G_

 **[17:41]** I cannot wait to wrap my lips around you. MH

 **[17:44]** _And now you’re playing dirty. G_

 **[17:45]** All is fair in love and war. MH

 **[17:49]** _You’re making me blush in a press briefing. G_

 **[17:50]** Delightful. MH

 **[17:50]** I will make you beg, too, when my tongue is inside you. MH

 **[17:52]** _You’re not helping at all. G_

 **[17:53]** I am not trying to help. MH

 **[17:54]** The noises you make as I fuck you with my tongue are addictive, Gregory. I need to hear them again. MH

 **[18:02]** _Just so you know, you’re paying for this taxi. G_


	20. “let’s pretend I didn’t see you do that”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Pre-relationship / Drug Use mention)
> 
> Prompt: Would you find any ideas to use the line “let’s pretend I didn’t see you do that” and tell us about them not yet in an relationship?

The dark sedan with the tinted windows draws up beside him, and occasions only a sense of heavy inevitability in Greg. A quick look at his watch: half one. _Bollocks._ He hasn’t been looking forward to this.

He’s surprised not to find the elder Holmes brother in the plush silence of the back of the car. The looping sweep of the traffic lights mesmerises him as they  glide smoothly through central London.

In the antechamber to Mycroft’s office, Anthea waves him through with what, he has learned, is merely an impression of total indifference.

Mycroft Holmes is in waistcoat and shirtsleeves. For once, he does not stand up when Greg enters the room.

Greg clamps down on the part of his brain that says _braces, wow,_ and closes the door gently behind himself.

“Do take a seat, Inspector,” says Mycroft.

 _Shit. This might be worse than I thought it would._ He notices the tight line of Holmes’ lips and the slight flare of his nostrils.

Without taking his coat off, Greg drops into the chair in front of Mycroft’s desk.

“A _drugs bust,”_ says Mycroft, without preamble.

“Mr Hol–”

“After the past year,” continues Mycroft, white to the lips, “could you not have allowed Sherlock this one evening? He was in possession of evidence, certainly, but was it not something you and your team were able to ignore, for just a few more hours?” The quiet venom in Mycroft’s voice sends a chill down Greg’s spine. “Invading a private residence under false pretences –” Mycroft’s hands clench tight on the arms of his chair, and he takes a deep breath in lieu of finishing his sentence. “I shall pretend that I did not see you do that, if you _never_ –”

Greg leans forward, fingers clumsy, numb with anger and tiredness. He wrestles a small carved wooden box out of the inner pocket of his coat, and drops it on the desk in front of Mycroft Holmes.

The man stops speaking immediately, mouth a tight line. His eyes go wide, and he reaches out for the box. Long, elegant white fingers slide the lid back with ease.

His eyes are bleak as he snaps the box shut.

“Plenty there,” says Greg, gently.

“Enough. More than enough.” The fight to keep his voice steady is clearly a bitter one.

Greg looks away, out of the window to the dark London skyline – not to save his own feelings, but from the uncomfortable impression that he is intruding on something unbearably, painfully private.

His own reflection is pinched and pale in the shadowy plate glass. Without meaning to, he witnesses a mirror-image of the way that Mycroft presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, long fingers trembling against his forehead.

The moment of silence stretches, and Greg shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

Mycroft makes a visible effort to collect himself, hands flat on the polished wood surface of his desk.

Standing up, Greg crosses to the drinks tray and pours them each a generous glass of whisky. Mycroft accepts his without demur.

“My apologies, Inspector,” he says quietly, after the first sip. “It was unfair of me to assume that your actions towards Sherlock tonight –” he gestures tiredly. “When in fact, you put yourself in a difficult situation to help him.”

Greg nods, once.

“Please rest assured that I would never –” Mycroft takes another sip of whisky. “Use this. In any way.” He indicates the box with his eyes.

_Yeah, we both know you can’t. You’d never see to my career with your brother’s liberty. Stalemate, on the blackmail front. But God, I hope that’s not how you see it – a bare exchange of favours. That’s not what I’m doing, anyway._

He shakes his head. “’Course. I know.” He tries to convey trust and acceptance in his smile.

Mycroft runs one hand slowly over his eyes.

With the exception of the day of the overdose, Greg has never seen him so disturbed. He allows the exceptionally fine whisky to warm him from the inside out, a trail of amber fire tethering him to wakefulness.

“Rehab, again?” he asks, tentatively.

“I confess, Inspector,” says Mycroft. “I am –” he hesitates. “I am unsure what best to try next. We –” he pauses, and corrects himself, _“I_ have so few options left.”

Greg fights to stop his surprise appearing in his expression. He had certainly not expected Mycroft Holmes to tacitly seek his advice.

He hesitates for a moment. “’S’got to come from him,” he says, finally. “Until then, I guess we just – keep going. Keep trying.”

Mycroft Holmes’ grey eyes are sharp, even in their tiredness.

_Yes, ‘we’. Sherlock’s not your problem alone, Mycroft Holmes. Nor should he be._

Mycroft’s eyes slide to the box. “It puts you in professional situations which must surely be untenable, Inspector.”

Greg raises one shoulder by an inch. “He’s worth it. What he does.” The answer is easy, and true.

He thinks perhaps Mycroft Holmes has never truly _seen_ him, until this moment.

Slowly, Mycroft gives a nod. And they finish their whisky in silence.


	21. “C-can I hold your hand...?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / First Date / Greg's ex-wife / Mycroft behaves like a huge bitch but it's for Greg)
> 
> Prompt: “c-can I hold your hand?..”

Greg makes it back from the bar with just seconds to spare. Mycroft looks at him, eyebrow raised; a silent interrogation on why he has failed to return bearing drinks.

“No time to explain,” mutters Greg, lips tight. His stomach feels hot and heavy, the aftermath of a sickening swoop of adrenaline. He’d spotted them just as he neared the front of the crush at the bar, heading towards him. “Sorry,” he says, making hurried, pleading eye contact with Mycroft. “Can I hold your hand?”

Mycroft blinks, several times, face blank.

“Greg!” Her voice is high, raised above the barrage of noise in the crowded bar. “Oh my god! Fancy running into you here.”

He swivels on the spot, eyes closed for a long, deep breath. Bracing himself.

“Leanne,” he says, as warmly as he can manage. “Quite a turn-up for the books, yeah.” He nods at the man with his arm slung casually around Leanne’s waist. “Peter.” He’d probably have continued, talking wildly to cover the awkwardness, but the breath is knocked from his lungs by the warm, reassuring lacing of Mycroft’s fingers with his own.

There is a moment of loaded silence.

“And – who’s this?” asks Leanne, smile now noticeably a little fixed.

Greg swallows, but Mycroft holds out his hand. “Mycroft Holmes,” he says, pleasantly.

They shake, briefly. Mycroft ignores Peter.

“Right. And you’re –”

“Yes,” says Greg. He smiles a soft, warm smile. _Long, elegant fingers in mine, the ridge of his ring against my palm – and how many times have you thought about those fingers, Greg? Christ_ –

“I – right. I’m Leanne,” she says, hitching her smile back into place. “I’m –”

“Gregory’s ex-wife.” There’s a minute pause, which Mycroft somehow manages to imbue with a world of disdain. “Yes.”

Their group is a small puddle of silence in the otherwise loud bar.

Greg struggles to breathe as Mycroft swipes the pad of his thumb gently, soothingly, over the backs of his knuckles.

“We were just off,” he says, after a moment. “Got a –” he waves his hand vaguely. “You can have our table.” He passes Mycroft his beautiful navy coat, which he folds over his arm.

 _He’s not letting go of my hand,_ thinks Greg. _He’s keeping hold of it the whole time we’re in sight of them. God. He_ –

There’s a round of insincere nice-to-see-you’s, and then they’re walking away, hands clasped, and Greg isn’t entirely sure this isn’t a dream.

“This place is going downhill,” says Mycroft, leaning in, a stage-murmur easily loud enough to carry as far as the table they’re leaving behind.

Greg keeps his expression as impassive as possible, but he squeezes Mycroft’s hand.

Outside in the street, he gives a shaky laugh. “Mycroft Holmes, you bitch,” he grins. His chest feels tight, and he knows his cheeks are flushed, hectic with adrenaline and awkwardness.

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitches. Somehow, neither of them has let go of the other’s hand.

Greg stops, and tugs Mycroft round to face him. “Thank you,” he says. He runs his free hand across his face, then through his hair, tugging a little. “Fuck. That was – thanks,” he says again, sighing.

He feels Mycroft trying gently to extract his fingers, and that’s –

“No, wait,” he says, urgently. “Actually – no.” He bites his lip, and looks up into Mycroft’s dark grey eyes. There’s a long, breathless moment.

“I lied,” he says, in a rush. “This wasn’t a drink to – to talk about Sherlock. I – like you. A lot. And this –” he holds up their joined hands, “– is a case in point. You’ve only ever supported me, in whatever.” He takes a breath, suddenly unsure how on earth to go on.

“You have supported me, too, Gregory,” says Mycroft, gently, and Greg loves his full name as he never has before.

He nods. “Yeah. Yeah. I s’pose I have. And – that’s important to me. Special, I think.” He squeezes Mycroft’s hand again. “What I’m trying to say is – what I should’ve made clear – this was – I wanted this to be a date. And – maybe you’ll agree to go on another one with me? Somewhere my ex-wife isn’t, preferably,” he adds, with a slightly rueful huff of laughter.

He dares to look up into Mycroft’s eyes. He catches the flutter of a blink, but then Mycroft gives him a small, genuine smile.

“I should enjoy that.”

 _Fuck. Right. Fucking hell._ “Good.”

There’s a short, slightly stunned silence.

“Should we now let go of one another’s hands, Detective Inspector? Since we are not yet ‘on a date’?”

Greg grins. “Don’t think there’s an official statute on that, Mycroft. I’d rather not, but we’ll go with whatever you want.”

“I see. Then I shall call my car.” And Mycroft’s thumb resumes its calm, smooth pattern, brushing across Greg’s knuckles.


	22. “You don’t have to do this if you’re scared”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Established relationship / Honeymoon / NSFW / Alcohol / Greg cheats at pool / strip pool / Blow Jobs)
> 
> Prompt: “You don’t have to do this if you’re scared”

Greg pours them a second shot each, and passes Mycroft a slice of lime. “Ready?” he grins.

“Not at all,” says Mycroft, wincing at the memory of the first one.

Greg snorts a laugh. “Hold out your hand,” he says. He looks directly into Mycroft’s grey eyes, laving his tongue slowly over the crease between his thumb and long, delicate index finger.

Mycroft regards him with a knowing look, which says _I know what you are doing, and resent it. Somewhat._

Greg places a soft kiss on the back of Mycroft’s hand, and reaches out for the salt. Shaking a little onto the place he had licked, he does the same on his own hand. He passes Mycroft a shot, then picks up his lime and shot glass.

“On three,” he smiles, and counts them in.

The salt and tequila go down like fire, and he bites into the lime with his eyes screwed shut. They gasp, groan and laugh as they slam the glasses back onto the edge of the pool table.

“Urgh,” groans Mycroft, shaking his head. Greg giggles and curls his hand around the back of his neck, pulling him close for a breathless, tequila-laced kiss.

“Right then,” grins Greg. “Let the contest begin.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “This is a terrible idea, Gregory.”

“Ohhh,” laughs Greg, hitching himself up to sit on the edge of the pool table. “You don’t have to do this if you’re _scared,_ you know.”

Mycroft straightens his spine and raises an eyebrow. _“Scared,”_ he enunciates with terrible precision. “You appear confused, husband dear. I meant, it is a terrible idea for you to undertake this game with me. You may become angry or upset when I win with ease.”

Greg throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, Myc,” he grins. “You couldn’t be more wrong. I hope you’re not a sore loser.”

Mycroft regards him with deadpan superciliousness, but Greg pulls him close. “Before we get going though, I have to kiss you again because one, ‘husband’, and two, you trashtalking me is the single most adorable thing I’ve ever heard.”

Mycroft tries to remain stern, but when Greg wraps his legs around his waist and draws his head down into a kiss, he melts against him.

“Mmm,” hums Greg, tangling his fingers in Mycroft’s hair, and hitching himself just a little closer on the edge of the pool table. Mycroft’s arms tighten around his waist, and Greg can feel his cock hardening against his stomach. “Gorgeous,” he murmurs into the kiss, smiling and biting Mycroft’s bottom lip.

“Do not attempt to distract me, Gregory,” says Mycroft, pulling back. Those dark grey eyes sparkle with his own brand of bone-dry humour, and Greg feels as though his chest may explode with how much he loves this reticent genius, who shows the truth of himself only to those he trusts. _Only to me._

“Well fine,” says Greg, mock-offended. He unwraps his legs from Mycroft’s waist. “All business, I see. You just want to get straight down to the losing.” He giggles and ducks as Mycroft tries to poke him in the ribs.

He can feel the tequila kicking in, a slight tipsiness in his movements, in the urge to giggle and touch and flirt.

“Tell you what,” he says, as he chalks the cues, “let’s make this interesting.”

Mycroft, arranging the balls in the triangle, looks up through his eyelashes. “I understand your need to lessen the inevitability of your crushing defeat,” he says calmly. “Do tell me what you have in mind.”

Greg chuckles and nods at him. _God, he’s so cute._ “Let’s make this strip pool, yeah?”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, and glances reflexively towards the door.

Greg smiles. “Only us here, gorgeous. Villa’s all ours for two weeks, and there’s no-one else around.” He passes Mycroft a cue. “Anyway, you didn’t have a problem getting naked with me in the hot tub yesterday.”

Adorably, Mycroft flushes slightly and drops his gaze. Greg wants to kiss him until neither of them can breathe. Instead, he says, “d’you want to break? Or shall I?”

“Please do,” says Mycroft, leaning nonchalantly on his cue.

Greg breaks fluidly, managing to pot a red. He follows that up with one more, then succeeds in blocking off one of the pockets with a carefully-placed ball. He plants the end of his cue on the ground and surveys Mycroft hungrily. “Right then. Time to take two things off.”

Mycroft opens his mouth, seemingly to object, then closes it again.

Greg grins. “You’ve got an advantage, anyway. You always wear so much more than me.”

“The advantages of sartorial elegance are many and various, Gregory,” he says snootily. Only the very slight lift at the corner of his mouth shows Greg that he is joking.

“Stop stalling. Time to strip, husband.”

Slowly, deliberately, Mycroft leans his cue against the wall and pushes off his shoes, followed by his watch. In truth, he is not wearing _that_ much more than Greg; it seems that casual honeymoon-Mycroft wears only a waistcoat, a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and soft tweed trousers.

“Socks as well,” negotiates Greg. “Because I blocked that pocket.”

“You are changing the rules of the game.”

“We never really agreed the stripping rules,” says Greg, thoughtfully. “So.”

Mycroft fixes him with a knowing glare, but takes his socks off, too. Then he picks up his cue and, with devastating precision, clears three yellow balls off the table.

“Well,” he says, smugly.

“Yeah, yeah,” grins Greg. He leans his cue against the table and takes off his watch, then kicks off his flip-flops.

“I hope you do not think I will accept those as an item of clothing,” says Mycroft, nodding to them. “I have already explained to you that they do not count as footwear.”

Greg laughs and rolls his eyes. “They _are_ shoes, Mycroft, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Even then,” says Mycroft. He sweeps Greg with a glance.

Slowly, Greg starts to unbutton his light cotton shirt. Mycroft watches, casual. Nonetheless Greg sees his fingers tighten slightly around the pool cue.

When he drops his shirt to the floor, Mycroft swallows, once.

“Time for another shot.”

Mycroft grimaces. “Must we?”

Greg laughs. “This enormously expensive tequila isn’t going to drink itself, Mycroft.”

Salt – tequila – lime – and they both gasp with the fiery punch to the chest. They giggle, clinging together, and Greg runs a hand through Mycroft’s hair. He loves it when that curl falls forward, over his forehead. Mycroft’s hands run greedily over the tanned, bare skin of his back.

They kiss, and it spins into something desperate, needy. Greg’s cock throbs in his jeans.

“Your turn, husband dear.”

Greg smiles, softly, and picks up his cue. He pots two reds in a row, then accidentally taps a yellow as he’s aiming for a long shot. When he looks up, Mycroft is shaking his head.

“Oh dear. I suppose that negates my obligation to strip?”

Greg snorts. “Nice try.” He leans against the wall and runs his eyes lazily down Mycroft’s long, lean body. “What’s it to be?”

With elaborate care, Mycroft unbuttons his waistcoat, then does the same with his shirt. Greg watches every button, wishing he could lick each newly-exposed inch of pale skin. Mycroft pauses, and waits, looking at Greg through his eyelashes.

Greg steps close, pushing the shirt and waistcoat to the floor. He bites Mycroft’s shoulder, sucking a mark, then soothing it with his tongue. Mycroft’s breath hitches, and Greg moves his kisses slowly up, over his collarbone, then up the delicate, pale neck. A little dizzy with tequila now, and Mycroft fills his senses. The soft skin beneath his lips feels luxuriously good. He runs his tongue down, until he can swirl it slowly, tortuously around Mycroft’s nipple. “I could rip the rest of these things off you,” he murmurs, fingers tracing the waistband of Mycroft’s trousers. “Hmm? Fuck you right here, over the table?”

Mycroft moans and buries his lips in Greg’s hair. But when he whispers in Greg’s ear, it’s to say, “still afraid to lose?”

Greg laughs, then bites his earlobe. “Alright. Go ahead,” he says, stepping back.

Mycroft picks up his cue, turns around and looks over his shoulder at Greg. “Excuse me,” he says, haughtily. “You are impeding my shot.”

 _Flushed cheeks, bright eyes. Can’t stop himself smiling._ Greg wants to put him on his back on the green baize. “Sorry,” he murmurs. He steps close and plasters himself over Mycroft’s back. “Go ahead.”

Mycroft sighs, but starts lining up his shot.

 _Bet he’s rolling his eyes._ Greg puts one hand on Mycroft’s hip, and reaches around with the other to slowly, teasingly stroke his cock through the fabric of his trousers. “Go on, darlin’,” he murmurs. “You’re doing so well.”

Mycroft’s cock throbs against his hand, and Greg grins secretly to himself. _Praise. He does love it._ He places a soft kiss between Mycroft’s shoulderblades.

“You look so good, Mycroft,” he whispers. “So fucking good. You make me want you so much.” He grinds the heel of his hand against Mycroft’s length.

“This is entirely unworthy of you, Gregory,” gasps Mycroft.

Greg places another kiss, then steps back. “’Course,” he says, quietly. “Please.”

Mycroft plants his back foot and leans forward to line up the shot again. And in a moment, Greg is on his knees, insinuating himself between the table and Mycroft’s body. His tequila-clumsy hands fumble with Mycroft’s trouser buttons and fly, rubbing and pressing at Mycroft’s rigid cock the while.

Mycroft groans, and Greg pulls both trousers and boxers roughly down to mid-thigh. “Mmm,” he hums appreciatively, closing his left hand around the base of Mycroft’s straining cock. He licks at the shaft, then gently closes his lips around the head. Mycroft moans, and lets the cue drop to the floor with a clatter. Leaning his elbows on the edge of the table, he allows his head to hang between his shoulders.

“You are a filthy cheat, Detective Inspector Holmes-Lestrade.” He sounds breathless. Greg sucks relentlessly at the head of his cock.

He pulls back for a moment, stroking Mycroft slowly with saliva and precome. “D’you like saying my new name, husband?” he asks, darkly. “You know I’m yours, don’t you?”

Mycroft’s breath catches in his throat. “Yes,” he gasps.

Greg digs the fingernails of his right hand into the meat of Mycroft’s arsecheek. “You know what I want, beautiful.”

“Yes,” groans out Mycroft, and he takes his left arm off the table. Reaching down, he plays his fingers through Greg’s hair.

 _Fuck._ Greg is rock-hard and desperate, fighting the urge to touch himself. Instead, he slides his lips luxuriously over the head of Mycroft’s cock, sucking, flicking his tongue along the sensitive vein – _there, that gasp_ – and taking in as much of the shaft as he can. He grazes his fingernails over Mycroft’s buttock, prompting him to buck forward a little into his mouth.

Very deliberately, Greg moans his pleasure around Mycroft’s cock.

“Fuck,” murmurs Mycroft, above him, and Greg’s cock strains against the zip of his jeans. Greg urges Mycroft forward, and as he begins tentatively to thrust, he tightens his hand in Greg’s hair.

 _Oh god, yes, that’s gorgeous._ He builds a rhythm, bobbing his head to meet the shallow thrusts of Mycroft’s hips, tongue following the vein along the underside of his cock and lapping insistently at his frenulum.

Mycroft is moaning, whining with need, Greg’s name on his lips again and again. He holds back, thrusting more shallowly; Greg urges him on, intensifying the suction and working his shaft smoothly with his left hand. Mycroft’s fingers are tight, almost painful, in his hair now, and Greg thinks again how easy it would be to touch himself, to come right here.

“Gregory – I – so close,” moans Mycroft, and Greg groans, tongue teasing the ridge at the head. He grasps Mycroft’s buttock with his right hand and pulls him forward to fuck his mouth in earnest; when Greg allows his ring finger to slip gently towards Mycroft’s tight hole, his husband makes a shredded sound and pushes forward, holding Greg’s head in place. His cock throbs and hardens still further; the last few thrusts have him almost sobbing Greg’s name, cock straining as Greg’s mouth fills with burst after burst of bitter come.

Greg waits, tongue caressing Mycroft softly through the aftershocks, then swallows him down. Slowly, he kisses his way up to Mycroft’s stomach, and wraps his arms around his husband’s waist.

Mycroft stands up straight, chest still heaving, and runs both hands gently through Greg’s hair. The feeling is glorious, every nerve-ending sensitive with arousal. Greg savours it, ignoring his desperately-throbbing cock.

At last, Mycroft reaches down for his hands, and pulls him up. Eyelids heavy, he kisses Greg deeply.

_Fuck. I love it when he tastes himself in my mouth._

“Sit on the pool table,” murmurs Mycroft, but Greg shakes his head. He puts his hands on Mycroft’s hips.

“We’re going to have a shower,” he says, voice rough. “And when we’re done, I’m going to open you with my tongue, and my fingers, and then I’m going to fuck you, so very slowly. And we’ll see if I can make you come again.”

Mycroft leans his forehead against Greg’s.

“All this just to avoid being beaten at pool, Gregory.”

Greg throws his head back and laughs. Mycroft kisses his shoulder, smirking slightly. Before they leave the room, Greg grabs the tequila bottle. “Maybe I can introduce you to body shots,” he grins.

“Good grief,” says Mycroft, over his shoulder.


	23. “Ah, you’re up. How’d you sleep?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Johnlock / Pre-relationship / Parentlock / Uncle Mycroft)
> 
> Prompt: “Ah, you’re up. How’d you sleep?”

“Tea in the pot.” John nods to the counter, and returns to coaxing Rosie to eat a spoonful of breakfast. “Come on sweetheart. What’s up with you this morning? Mrs Hudson give you too much dinner, hmm?”

Rather uncomfortably, Mycroft hangs his umbrella over the back of a chair and reaches down a mug.

“Actually, Mycroft, could you pour me one too?” asks John distractedly, evading Rosie’s attempt to flick the spoonful of cereal all over him. “This one’s gone completely cold.”

Mycroft lays a long-fingered hand on the teapot. “I shall make a fresh pot,” he says, quietly.

John sighs. “This is taking forever this morning.” He glances up at the clock on the wall. “Barely the morning still,” he adds, to himself. “We were out ’til all hours – well, you know, don’t you – and poor Mrs Hudson had Rosie all day yesterday. Don’t think either of them got much sleep. This little madam’s really grumpy today.”

Mycroft refills the kettle and washes out the teapot. He reaches down two more mugs; places them alongside his own. “I confess I had urgent matters to attend to yesterday evening,” he says. “Was the case concluded satisfactorily?”

“Yeah,” says John, absently, chuckling tightly as Rosie makes a grab for the bowl of cereal. “Oh no, madam, I don’t think so.”

“And Sherlock –?”

“Crashed out,” says John, shortly. “He’s barely slept the past couple of weeks.”

Mycroft recognises the steely tone in John’s voice – protective. _Do not wake him, Mycroft Holmes._  He sighs, silently, and pours the boiling water into the teapot. Adding two teabags, he puts the lid on and leaves it to steep. He allows the edge of the kitchen counter to dig into the heels of his hands, staring absently out of the small kitchen window at the grey London day beyond. A ginger cat stalks elegantly along the top of the next house’s scruffy concrete yard wall.

He had hardly slept himself, monitoring the negotiations at the summit in Japan until early in the morning. His eyes feel tight with tiredness, his gaze unfocused.

Behind him, he hears the smile in John’s voice. “Ah, you’re up. How’d you sleep?”

Mycroft waits for Sherlock to speak.

“Like the dead,” yawns Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. “Thank goodness. Mornin’ Mycroft,” he adds. “’S’that tea?”

Mycroft’s spine stiffens, and he takes a quick breath in. Nevertheless, his voice is unhurried when he speaks. He does not turn around. “Certainly, Detective Inspector. Am I to take it you would like a cup?”

Mycroft can hear the grin in Lestrade’s voice. “God, yeah. Thanks,” he says. His tone has changed dramatically when he speaks again. “Good morning Rosie posy,” he says softly. “Having your breakfast, hmm?”

Mycroft is horrified to find that he actually _likes_ the adoringly soppy way Lestrade is speaking. _Good grief. Baby talk is the very definition of nauseating. Appalling._ He stirs the tea with short, tight movements.

Rosie lets out a delighted shriek, and John sighs. “Right, well I s’pose that’s good enough,” he says. “She’s barely eating this morning.”

Mycroft opens the fridge to retrieve the milk, still not turning around.

“I can amuse her for a bit, if you want to get ready,” says Lestrade. “’S’my fault you weren’t allowed in your bedroom last night anyway, isn’t it missy?”

John takes a breath. “Thanks,” he says, standing up and walking around Mycroft to drop Rosie’s cereal bowl and spoon in the sink. “You’re a mate, Greg. Sherlock’s out like a light.” He takes the cup of tea Mycroft passes him and gulps half of it in one go. “Mmm,” he says, appreciatively. “Right. I’ll just take a quick shower. Her toys and all that are in the –”

“– basket in the corner. I know, John, s’alright.” Lestrade’s voice stretches as he picks Rosie up. “Oh, you’re getting so big, aren’t you?”

She chatters nonsense to him as they move away round the table. Mycroft takes a deep breath and picks up two mugs of tea. They are both strong, but one of them has plenty of milk. The bathroom door clicks shut behind John.

Eyes on Rosie, Mycroft walks into the living room and places Lestrade’s cup of tea on the table between the windows, too high for her to reach and spill.

Lestrade, kneeling next to Rosie, looks up at him. His brown eyes are soft. “Ta,” he smiles.

 _Pyjamas,_ stutters Mycroft’s brain. _Too long for him. Soft white t-shirt. Eyes crumpled from much-needed sleep, but dark circles still. Silver hair ruffled. Bare feet. Dear God._

Lestrade takes a draught of tea and hums appreciatively. “Good tea,” he says, offering Rosie a rounded red racing car. “How about this, lovey, hmm?”

Mycroft takes a seat in John’s chair, and buries his nose in his tea. _Lovey._

“Crashed in poor Rosie’s room, after the case,” says Lestrade casually, taking another swig of tea. “Since she was already asleep at Mrs Hudson’s.”

Mycroft gives a short nod. “Indeed. I understand it has been a tiring case.”

“Could say that,” says Lestrade, stifling another yawn. “An’ how’ve you been? Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Quite well, thank you, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade turns laughing eyes on him. “How many times d’you think I’ve asked you to call me Greg, now?” he asks.

Mycroft smoothes the fingers of his left hand down the seam of his tweed trouserleg. He watches Rosie become frustrated with the bright, clumsy toy, and look around, as though searching for either her Dad or Papa. “Too many,” he rejoins sourly. Greg shoots him a darkly amused glance. “My apologies, Gregory,” adds Mycroft, more meekly.

Rosie gives a burst of thwarted babble at the toy, and throws it at Greg. It bounces off his arm. He jumps with surprise, though it certainly did not hurt him.

“Rosamund Watson-Holmes,” says Mycroft, seriously. “You do not throw things at people.”

She regards him with wide eyes for a moment, then tucks the corners of her mouth in a private little smile. She stands up and walks unsteadily to Mycroft, putting her tiny hands on his knee.

There’s a short, intense silence. Greg has frozen, cup of tea halfway to his lips.

Rosie giggles as Mycroft blinks at her.

“Has she…is she…?” asks Greg, dazed.

“I…am unsure,” says Mycroft.

The bathroom door opens, and John emerges, towelling his hair.

Greg lowers his cup of tea.

“All alright?” asks John, making for the teapot.

“Mmm,” says Greg, looking directly into Mycroft’s eyes. “John – um, has Rosie started walking yet?”

“No,” says John casually, bending to put Rosie’s breakfast bowl in the dishwasher. “She’s been doing that –” he nods at her. “Pulling herself up on stuff. But she’s not quite there yet.”

Mycroft sees Greg’s eyes widen just a little.

“Right,” says the Detective Inspector.

Mycroft shakes his head, fractionally, and Greg grins at him. _Of course I’m not going to, you prat,_ practically writes itself over his face. Mycroft presses his lips together, suppressing a smile.

“Well, she’s definitely getting good at standing,” says Greg, the corners of his lips curling. “Won’t be long, I’m sure.”

“Yeah,” says John absently. “By the way, Mycroft, you’ll be glad to hear Sherlock’s woken up. He’ll be out in a minute.”

“Thank you, John,” says Mycroft, gravely. He cannot look away from Greg’s dark, dancing eyes.

Rosie loses her balance, and sits down with a thump.


	24. Beer Kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Established Relationship / Fluff)

“Gregory?”

There’s a distant noise of surprise. After a moment, Greg appears in the doorway. Mycroft blinks, sleepily.

“You’re home,” says Greg. “Had no idea. Just got in, been making myself a cup of tea. Thought you’d be out all night.”

“I may have to go in again in a few hours,” murmurs Mycroft, the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes. His voice is pallid, exhausted.

“Darlin’,” says Greg, gently. “Hang on.”

Mycroft gives a soft groan from behind his hands, sleep clearly stealing up on him again.

When Greg crawls into bed next to him, Mycroft turns instinctively towards his warmth. “Pub?” he murmurs.

“Quick one, with John. I’d’ve come straight back if I knew you were here.”

“Sorry,” murmurs Mycroft. He tips his head up for a kiss, eyes closed.

Greg kisses him, gently, and is surprised when he feels Mycroft’s lips part to him. “Mmm?” he hums enquiringly.

“Beer,” mumbles Mycroft softly.

“You don’t even like beer,” he whispers fondly.

“I like it on you.”

“You’re an odd one, Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft’s tired half-shrug manages to be elegant, somehow.

Greg kisses Mycroft’s jawline, watching him slip gently into sleep.


	25. “I can’t believe they spelled your name wrong again"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Established Relationship / Bonfire Night)
> 
> Prompt fill: “I can’t believe they spelled your name wrong again"

“Can’t believe they got your name wrong again,” says Greg, innocently.

Mycroft rolls his eyes, a private smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “You are an appalling liar, Gregory.” He settles back into his husband’s arms, against his chest.

Greg shivers slightly and pulls the blanket more securely over them both. “Yeah, well, sometimes I just like reminding this damn poncy club of yours you’re mine,” he grins. “You know they’d never let me in the front door if it weren’t for you.”

Mycroft finds Greg’s hand with his own, beneath the blanket. “You are not upset that I did not change my name, Gregory?”

Greg laughs, burying his lips in the soft skin at Mycroft’s temple. “’Course not,” he huffs, amused. “I don’t care. I just like rubbing it in to this lot, that the ever-so-posh Mr Holmes is actually this dumb copper’s Mr Holmes-Lestrade.”

“Gregory,” says Mycroft chidingly. “Do not refer to yourself as ‘dumb’. Also, you are warming me insufficiently. Please do better.”

“Well, we’re sitting on a roof in November, gorgeous,” snorts Greg. “I’m doing my best.”

Mycroft tips his head back on Greg’s chest and kisses the underside of his jaw, a hum of satisfaction in the back of his throat. “In fact, the staff of the club are happy for us.”

“God,” grins Greg. “How can you tell?”

“On Thursday morning, Wilder broke the rules of the club to ask after both your, and my, health.”

“Christ,” snorts Greg. There’s a short pause. “Mind you, you _were_ probably looking pretty chipper that morning. That was the morning after –”

“Yes, thank you Gregory,” says Mycroft, velvet warmth behind his repressive tone.

Greg chuckles, and smoothes his hand over Mycroft’s waistcoat beneath the blanket. “Not long ’til the fireworks,” he says, placing a kiss behind Mycroft’s ear.

“Mmm,” hums Mycroft happily, pushing back further into Greg’s warmth. There’s a moment of quiet. “Bonfire Night was my favourite of the year, as a child.”

He can feel the sharpening of Greg’s attention; the slight shift of his body as he tips into listening carefully. Married though they are, the number of times Mycroft has spoken about his childhood can be counted on the fingers of one hand.

“Mmm?” asks Greg, gently, enquiringly. Mycroft threads their fingers together beneath the blanket.

“Indeed. More so than Christmas or my birthday. The sense of excitement, of wonder, was –” he pauses, and squeezes Greg’s hand.

Greg smiles. “Bloody hell, Mycroft. Never’ve pegged you as enjoying a night dedicated to revolutionary fervour and political anarchy.”

Mycroft’s huff of amusement makes Greg grin, glancing down to watch his husband’s mouth curl.

“Perhaps, aged seven, I was a little less politically aware than I am now, Gregory.”

“Tiny revolutionary,” grins Greg. “I hope you declared this when you signed the Official Secrets Act.” He digs his fingertips very gently into Mycroft’s stomach, and Mycroft squirms closer to him, tipping his head against Greg’s neck.

“You are absurd,” murmurs Mycroft.

Greg smiles. “We ought to be at a proper Bonfire Night, then,” he says, nodding out over the city. “Not just waiting for the fireworks.”

Mycroft gives a wry smile. “You picture me with sparkler in one hand and toffee apple in the other?” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh why the hell not?” asks Greg, kissing Mycroft’s cheek. “You’re just you, gorgeous. If that’s what you want, why not?”

Mycroft has no answer. He rests his cheek against the softness of Greg’s jumper, the tip of his nose cold against Greg’s neck.

“I’ll know for next year,” says Greg. In the distance, there’s a low bass rumble. “Hey. Fireworks’re starting.”


	26. "What is that?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Established Relationship / Mycroft got a promotion / Greg loves baking / Fluff / NSFW / Casual mention of rimming)
> 
> Prompt: “whAT IS THAT?!”

There’s a short delay between the sound of the front door closing and Mycroft’s arrival in the kitchen. Greg turns his head from where he’s finishing washing up the mixing bowl, and grins at him. “Hello, you.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, looking at the table. “What is _that?”_

Greg snorts at the tone. “Cheeky bastard. It’s a cake.”

“I am willing to concede that at least _half_ of it is a cake, certainly,” says Mycroft, and maybe only Greg would notice the slight uptick at the edges of his lips, the soft gleam in his deep grey eyes.

Greg grins, and crosses the kitchen to wrap his arms around Mycroft’s waist. “’Orrible man,” he murmurs, into Mycroft’s neck. He smoothes the pad of his thumb along Mycroft’s jawline, and gives him a lingering kiss. His fingers work Mycroft’s tie undone and away, and he slides the jacket from his shoulders. “Sit down,” he says.

“And this is…?” asks Mycroft delicately, taking a seat at the table, as Greg brings a knife to cut the cake.

“Well, I was feeling a bit inventive,” smiles Greg, throwing him a glance. “So I thought I’d make a dark chocolate brownie layer, and a Victoria sponge layer. Y’know, separately. And then put them together like a sponge cake.”

“I see,” says Mycroft, wryly. “And in the middle?”

“Raspberry jam in the middle, raspberry buttercream on top, and there’re dried raspberries in the brownie, too,” says Greg proudly. He puts a slice on Mycroft’s plate and pokes him in the shoulder. “Oi, stop looking at it like it’s some terrifying Frankenstein cake.”

Mycroft lowers his eyebrow and picks up his fork. “You are nothing if not imaginative, Gregory.”

Greg huffs a laugh and walks to the fridge. The pop of the champagne cork makes Mycroft jump. “Gregory. You promised you would not make a fuss.”

“What?” says Greg, with innocent indignation. “You text me to say you’ve got a big promotion – although God knows I’m never going to find out what it actually is, am I – and I’m not allowed to do _anything?”_ He fills two champagne flutes. “This is the _tiniest_ of all possible fusses, Mycroft.”

“I do not believe that _any_ fuss is necessary.”

“Well I do. I’m bloody proud of you.” If Greg had known his partner a little less well, he might have missed the pleased flush that tints his cheeks. They clink glasses, and Greg draws his own chair up close, tangling their legs together beneath the table. He picks up Mycroft’s fork and takes a mouthful of cake. “It’s not _that_ bad,” he says, grinning.

“It is delicious, Gregory,” murmurs Mycroft, leaning in to kiss him. “Thank you.”

“Despite it being a fuss?”

“Despite that.”

“How much more of a fuss can you take?”

Mycroft presses his lips together, and Greg knows he is suppressing a smile. “What else can there possibly be?”

“I thought once you’d had your cake I’d take you to bed and rim you until you’re begging to come, and you can’t decide whether you want my cock or my mouth and fingers to take you over the edge.” There’s a beat of silence. “If you can stand the fuss.”

With quiet decision, Mycroft picks up his fork. “Do be quiet, Gregory. I have cake to finish.”


	27. Silver grey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Background Johnlock / Greg is hot in jumpers / The Holmes Brothers / Sherlock is a good brother)

“I can hardly ask them to wait for you to finish ‘the case of someone’s chicken going missing in Croydon’, Sherlock –”

“Not one chicken, brother dear, a whole coop full of them! Disappeared!”

“Sherlock.”

“No.”

“Sherlock –”

John greeting someone at the kitchen door hardly makes an impression on the brothers, staring at one another with ferocious determination.

Somewhere, in the back of Mycroft’s brain, he notes the back-and-forth:

_Er – they alright?_

_Yeah? They’re arguing, I think. Can’t really tell when they get like this –_

An exhalation and a low chuckle in the background, something nagging at Mycroft’s attention but he’s not going to break the steel-grey glare he’s sharing with Sherlock –

_Cuppa?_

_Perfect, ’s'been a long day actually –_

A body in Mycroft’s peripheral vision, a man, dropping down to sit on the sofa, and then his brain says _silver-bright hair –_

And the gaze breaks, Mycroft wouldn’t say he was the one who broke it, exactly – but maybe he was – and DI Lestrade is wearing a soft, warm-looking charcoal jumper. He’s obviously been home to change after work, because Mycroft’s never seen him in something like that before, and it suits him, doesn’t it, it looks –

His fingers curl on the old, thin fabric of the arms of John’s chair and Sherlock’s eyes are wide, astonished, his surprise too fresh even to form a sneer.

“Alright?” says Lestrade, casual, and a man of Mycroft’s age shouldn’t be tongue-tied, ever, but in the end it’s up to Sherlock to give a dismissive side-swipe of an answer.

Mycroft is grateful to his little brother.


	28. Choux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Established Relationship / Fluff / Greg loves baking)

“Myc?” Greg calls. The kettle finishes boiling, and Greg starts a couple of mugs of tea steeping.

He hears the answer faintly, from Mycroft’s study. “Yes, Gregory?”

“Can I borrow you for a minute?”

On the radio in the background the afternoon drama mutters peacefully.

When Mycroft appears in the kitchen, Greg hands him a cup of tea. Mycroft smiles, then lifts an enquiring eyebrow.

“Need a tester.”

Mycroft takes a sip of tea, and Greg leads him to the counter, where a tray of chocolate-covered choux buns wait invitingly.

“And these are?”

“Chestnut and crème pat choux buns with an Earl Grey dark chocolate glaze.”

Mycroft sips his tea again, then sets the mug down on the side. “They look delicious, Gregory.”

Greg fetches a knife and cuts one in half, then picks it up and lifts it to Mycroft’s lips. Mycroft accepts the morsel.

“I mean – I think the base is a bit underbaked, and I’d’ve liked to get the crème pat a bit thicker –” says Greg nervously, as Mycroft chews.

Mycroft finishes the mouthful and raises Greg’s hand to his lips, kissing the fingertips gently. “Delightful,” he murmurs. Greg’s concentration – focused firmly on the tricky choux buns for the past couple of hours – shivers into this new set of impressions: Mycroft’s lips soft against the sensitive pads of his fingertips. Mycroft’s hand on his hip, fingers a little restless.

He leans in, and takes a kiss.


	29. Schedule

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Mystrade / Established Relationship / Christmas / Anthea being the best as usual)

**Friday 15th September 2017**

“Last order of business, Anthea,” says Mycroft with a small, reluctant sigh, placing his pen precisely along the centre of his notebook. He straightens his back, lifts his chin and clears his throat slightly.

“Sir.” Her voice is neutral, but he does not miss the tuck of the corner of her bottom lip, which denotes – he has learnt – intense curiosity.

“I shall need just over a week off.”

There is a long moment of total silence in the room, during which neither employer nor assistant seems to breathe.

“Yes, sir. When?” Anthea’s tone, relaxed to anyone who does not know her, makes Mycroft fold his hands on the edge of his desk.

“From Sunday 24th December until Tuesday 2nd January.”

The assistant takes a breath, and when she speaks again, there is a steely note of determination in her voice. “Very well, sir. And should I talk to the Commissioner about Detective Inspector Lestrade’s upcoming holidays?”

“If you would.”

She nods, and stands up, shutting the case of her iPad with a snap. “Thank you, Mr Holmes.”

As she closes the door softly behind her, Mycroft relaxes slightly. Even now, after nearly a year, revealing personal details, admitting to his private life at work, is hard. The habit of a lifetime, holding fast when so many of his other walls have crumbled.

—

**Tuesday 2nd October 2017**

Anthea puts her head around the door. “There is a matter –”

Mycroft glances up from his emails and sees her expression. “Come in,” he murmurs.

She closes the door behind her. “I have spoken to the Foundation regarding the New Year party.”

Mycroft stands up and crosses to the sideboard, his back to Anthea. He pours himself a glass of water. Something to do with his hands. “Yes?”

“They asked me to speak with you. To ask you to reconsider.”

Mycroft’s shoulders tense. Consciously, he relaxes them. “You told them that I would, of course, be sending my usual donation?”

“Of course, sir. They were adamant that I should speak with you again, despite my assurances that it would make no difference.”

“And it will not. Double the donation.”

A pause just a hair’s-breath longer than it might have been, and then, “yes, sir.”

“And the reservation?” asks Mycroft. “It has been confirmed?” He takes a sip of water, and walks towards the window.

“Yes, Mr Holmes. I received the confirmation yesterday.”

“Thank you, Anthea.”

The door closes with a discreet click.

—

**Friday 27th October 2017**

“I am sorry, Sir, but the Prime Minister has rung again, regarding the –”

Mycroft makes a dry little _ah_ noise, and hangs his jacket over the back of his chair again. He reopens his laptop, light harshly blue in the gloom of his office. He sneaks a look at his watch – past ten. _Text Gregory._

“I shall ring her now,” he says, calmly, picking up his Blackberry.

Anthea turns the lights back on for him as she leaves the room.

While the phone rings, he sends a text.

**[22:09] My apologies, Gregory. I shall be a little longer at the office. MH**

—

**Wednesday 22nd November 2017**

“Well then, Holmes,” says the Minister expansively, crossing his legs and slouching a little in his chair. He has grown in confidence, during their meeting.

Mycroft tolerates it, for now. His smile, his slightly-raised eyebrow, are politely inquiring.

“When’s the next meeting, then, next month? Week between Christmas and New Year? Do this at the club instead, get some drinks inside us while we hash things out?” the man’s voice is plummy, overfed and under-cautious.

“I regret,” says Mycroft blandly, “I shall not be available then.”

“Ah,” says the Minister, on a laugh. “Holiday?” he chuckles at his own joke. Mycroft’s unwavering stare sobers him, slowly. “You don’t take holidays.”

“Nevertheless.”

“Ah. Ha. I see.” The Minister sits up straight, and uncrosses his legs; there is a brief flit of unease across his thickened features. “Well. Week before that then.”

“If our secretaries could arrange it, that would be most convenient.”

“Oh – ah. ’F’course. Yes.”

They shake hands, briefly, before he leaves.

—

**Saturday 23rd December 2017**

Mycroft checks the time on his phone. 23:26. He draws on his navy coat, checks that his gloves are in his pocket, and slips his warm cashmere scarf around his neck.

He stops at Anthea’s desk. She looks up at him, calmly, and holds out both hands. Slowly, he puts his laptop and Blackberry into them. She lowers them to the desk in front of her, and folds her hands on top of them.

“Merry Christmas, sir.”

“And to you, Anthea,” he returns, flatly. He hesitates, briefly. “If there is anything –”

“Yes, Mr Holmes.”

“Do not hesitate to –”

“Of course not, sir.”

The absence of his briefcase in his hand, of his Blackberry in his coat pocket, is suddenly terribly heavy. He blinks, twice.

“The car is waiting downstairs, Mr Holmes.”

“Yes.” He straightens his back, and turns towards the lift. As he presses the button, he looks back. “You will find a token of my appreciation with your Christmas payslip.”

“Sir,” she says imperturbably.

He nods, and takes the lift.

—

**Sunday 24th December 2017**

It is ten past midnight by the time he opens the front door. He pushes off his shoes, and hangs up his coat and scarf.

“Gregory?” he calls, quietly. _He may be asleep._

“Living room,” comes the reply.

Mycroft pauses in the door to the living room. Only the Christmas tree and the television light the room, golden and blue lights mixing. Greg grins at him from the sofa, dark eyes black in the low light, and Mycroft’s heart does its slow turn in his chest.

“Stayin’ there, gorgeous?” asks Greg, holding out his arms.

“Certainly not,” says Mycroft, crossing to the sofa. He sits, rather primly, next to Greg on the sofa. “What are you watching?”

“Oi,” grumbles Greg mock-crossly, poking his arm. “That’s no way to greet your extremely loving and very long-suffering boyfriend after you buggered off to work for about nineteen hours.”

Mycroft looks down at him, and finds it hard to breathe. He dips his head, and takes a gentle kiss. He cannot help smiling against Greg’s mouth.

Greg grins, too, and nudges their foreheads together. “Bed, yeah?” he whispers. “What time you got to be up and out?”

Mycroft hesitates. “Actually,” he says, after a moment, “I have tomorrow – today – off.”

Greg’s smile is wide and genuine. He slips his arm around Mycroft’s waist, pulling him close. “Brilliant,” he says, as he kisses Mycroft’s jaw.

“I –” adds Mycroft, and Greg pulls back to look at him. “We have this week as holiday,” says Mycroft, somewhat diffidently.

Greg’s fingers tighten on Mycroft’s waist, but he looks a little confused. “What?”

Suddenly, Mycroft’s insides curl shyly. _It was a mistake to believe that this would make a good present._

He clears his throat. “Until the second of January,” he says quietly, eyes fixed on the pattern of the blanket under which Greg has been curled.

“Off work entirely?” asks Greg, sounding nonplussed.

“Yes,” says Mycroft, simply, still not looking up. The breath is crushed out of him as Greg grabs him and pulls him down, on top of him on the sofa.

“Gorgeous, you’re kidding,” says Greg, dark eyes soft and deep.

Mycroft half-shakes his head. “I assure you not.”

Greg’s hands are soft and strong on his face, in his hair. “How the bloody hell’d’you manage that, mm?” he murmurs against Mycroft’s lips, kissing and biting softly. “You’re a miracle worker.”

“Anthea is a miracle worker,” murmurs Mycroft, chasing another kiss. “You should thank her.”

“I’ll thank you first,” grins Greg, nipping Mycroft’s bottom lip. “Mm?”

Mycroft tries to quash his own smile. “If you insist.”

“I can think of a few ways,” whispers Greg. He runs a hand through Mycroft’s hair. “You must have your laptop though, right?” he asks, in a more normal tone. “Just in case? Work phone?”

Mycroft shakes his head. “Anthea has them.”

Greg raises his eyebrows.

Mycroft makes an inquiring noise.

“Christ.” Greg laughs, and rubs his eyes with one hand. “Just – actually a bit scared. Of nuclear meltdown or something.”

Mycroft tucks the corners of his mouth in. “Gregory.”

Greg chuckles, dark eyes sparkling. “Darlin’,” he murmurs, thumb stroking Mycroft’s cheekbone. “My genius.” He pulls Mycroft down, settles him along his side. “What’re we going to do with all that time, hmm?”


	30. Long Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mystrade / NSFW / Spanking / Dom/Sub relationship / Fluff and Smut

The set of Mycroft’s shoulders as he puts down his briefcase and hangs up his coat worries Greg. The hand he rests tiredly on the wall as he pushes off his shoes worries him more. And the most concerning thing of all is the _way_ he pushes off his shoes: like Greg does, with his toes. _Thus scuffing the leather in the most unpardonable way,_ thinks Greg, in Mycroft’s voice.

He doesn’t undo the laces, either.

Greg stops chopping peppers, washes his hands and pours Mycroft a glass of wine. He smiles softly as Mycroft walks into the kitchen area, and holds it out. “Long day, gorgeous.”

Mycroft gives a rueful flicker of a smile, ignores the proffered glass, and steps close, dipping his head to rest in the place where Greg’s neck meets his shoulder.

Greg slips his arms around him, pulling them tight together. _He knows, now, that this is fine. Taking a hug when he needs one. He used to hover, unhappy, unsure, until I could work out what was wrong. We’ve come a long way._

Mycroft’s breathing is ever so slightly unsteady. Something about the way he holds himself still reminds Greg of those other occasions; a holding-back. Something in reserve. A need unmet.

Greg slides his right hand down Mycroft’s back, soothing. Then he pulls back a little, hands on Mycroft’s upper arms, deliberately finding his reluctant gaze. He runs his palms down Mycroft’s arms, to his wrists, and steps in close to hold them together, softly, fingers of one hand stretched to do so. “Mm?” he asks, gently, watching Mycroft’s dark grey eyes.

Mycroft blinks, gaze falling, half-ashamed as he nods.

Greg kisses the corner of his mouth, and turns him round, pushing him gently ahead of him into the bedroom. He does not let go of Mycroft’s wrists.

In their bedroom, he takes lube from the drawer, and sits on the edge of the bed. “Tie off, top button undone,” he says, calmly.

Mycroft’s fingers fumble ever so slightly on his tie. He hands it over.

_He won’t just drop it on the floor, like anyone else would._ Greg smiles. “Come here.”

Mycroft stands in front of him, and Greg could never have believed, before the first time they’d done this, the look of wary, helpless _need_ that fills his eyes. It never fails to take Greg’s breath.

Mycroft is getting hard already.

Greg smiles. “Trousers down.”

Mycroft’s breath catches. He controls his movements as he undoes his trouser buttons and fly, and pushes them and his boxers down. His cock springs out, more than half-hard, full and needy.

“Ah –” says Greg, warningly, when the trousers reach mid-thigh.

Mycroft stands, legs slightly apart, hands uncharacteristically awkward at his sides.

Greg watches him harden further under his gaze, enjoying the view.

“Mmm,” he says appreciatively, at last. “Come here, gorgeous.” He sits back, making room.

Mycroft climbs onto the bed, laying himself across Greg’s lap. His cock is hard against Greg’s left thigh. Greg’s stomach flips with urgent need. He ignores it.

He runs his hand, slowly, across Mycroft’s back; rubbing slightly at the base of his spine. Allowing his hand to slip beneath Mycroft’s white shirt, still crisp and formal after a day at work.

Mycroft gasps when Greg’s hand runs roughly, assessingly, over his buttocks.

Greg feels Mycroft’s cock strain against his leg.

“You’ve been needing this, haven’t you?” asks Greg, allowing his fingers to roam, brushing along the crease where Mycroft’s buttocks meet his thighs, down his thighs and back up. “Such a long day, and all you could think about was this. That itch, under your skin, waiting for me to put you across my lap, hmm?”

He doesn’t expect an answer. Mycroft’s elbows are braced on the bed, his head hanging between them. His breathing is not quite calm.

Greg opens the lube, and calmly coats the first two fingers of his left hand. He runs his index finger gently into the top of Mycroft’s cleft, teasing down, between his cheeks. Just as Mycroft’s breath catches, he removes his fingers; begins again, rubbing circles into Mycroft’s perineum instead, too softly to do anything but tease, yet.

Mycroft’s hips shift, just a little, pressing his cock restlessly into Greg’s thigh.

The stinging slap to Mycroft’s buttocks is loud in the silence of their bedroom. Mycroft groans, the sound quickly muffled as he attempts to master himself. His shoulders shift and loosen; Greg watches as his eyes squeeze tight shut, pain and relief written in the flickering of his eyelashes.

The pad of Greg’s index finger strokes, softly, around Mycroft’s tight hole, and he sees Mycroft take a breath, knowing he needs to find some coherence, because Greg won’t continue unless –

“Yes,” gasps Mycroft. “Please.”

“Good boy,” says Greg gently, as he breaches Mycroft with the tip of his finger. “Good boy.” He presses in, steadily, slowly, allowing Mycroft time to breathe, but not stopping.

As he starts to move his finger slowly out and back in – just an inch at a time – Greg lays his right hand across the back of Mycroft’s neck, letting his thumb run beneath his collar, rubbing, massaging –

Mycroft’s cock never softens against Greg’s leg, although he had been expecting it to, just a little, perhaps, as he adjusts to the feeling of being filled –

Instead, Mycroft shifts slightly, breath catching, cock rubbing against Greg’s thigh, against the fabric of his work trousers.

Greg chuckles, low and warm. “You want more, mm? Faster? Want to rub yourself off on these beautiful trousers you bought me?”

Mycroft’s eyes close, blush staining high and bright across his cheeks. He bites his lip.

“No need to be ashamed, gorgeous,” purrs Greg. “You just want to come, don’t you? Natural. You need it, ’specially after today. Thing is though, you know I’m in charge. You know I say when.” He increases the pace of his thrusts inside Mycroft, ghosting the pad of his finger across his prostate.

Mycroft’s hips jerk, fingers tightening in the duvet cover.

“I know you won’t break the rules, darlin’,” murmurs Greg. “You’re so good for me.”

Mycroft’s cock throbs, steel-hard against Greg’s leg.

Greg smiles. “How about another finger, gorgeous, hmm?” he asks, softly. “Think you can take it?”

Mycroft groans, quietly. “Yes,” he gasps, allowing his forehead to press against the duvet. “Yes, please,” he manages, breathlessly, when Greg doesn’t move.

“Darlin’. Good boy.”

As Greg withdraws his finger, Mycroft catches his breath, a moan stifled in his throat. Greg slicks his fingers again, teasing gently at Mycroft’s hole, right hand stealing up into his hair.

“Now. Please. Now,” Mycroft pants, pressing himself back against Greg’s fingers. “Please,” he whispers, as Greg continues to tease.

Greg wants to kiss him, to take those broken syllables and breathe them in. He fights to keep the need out of his voice. “’S’coming, gorgeous. We’re getting there.” He teases a few moments longer, fingertips softly dipping and retreating.

Mycroft’s breaths come irregularly, desperately.

Slowly, Greg pushes in with intent; stretching him.

“Yes,” whispers Mycroft, the edges of his voice rough, strained. “Yes.”

Greg continues, steadily, giving Mycroft time to adjust. His hips buck as Greg’s fingers brush his prostate. Mycroft puts his head down, and winds the fingers of both hands into his hair, pulling for control.

Greg lets his right hand run down Mycroft’s spine, rubbing, massaging, then working his shirt up so that he can stroke skin, a complicated pattern of touch, freckle to freckle.

Mycroft’s hips are moving, now, rocking desperately back and forth, between the friction of Greg’s thigh and the fullness of Greg’s fingers.

Greg digs the fingernails of his right hand lazily into the tender, pale skin of Mycroft’s back. “You know I didn’t say you could move, Mycroft.”

Mycroft groans, stilling his hips. His breath hitches, gasps, almost a sob of frustration. Greg’s own cock throbs in his trousers.

Greg crooks his fingers, stroking softly, over and over, across Mycroft’s prostate. With his right palm he delivers a swift, stinging slap to Mycroft’s right buttock.

Mycroft loses his breath in a surprised gasp, fingers tightening in his own hair. The slap pushes him forward across Greg’s thigh. He shifts back, cock straining with the satisfying friction. He bites down on a moan.

“I know you’re close, gorgeous,” says Greg, low and rough. “Filled up, stretched open for me. So hard.” He slaps Mycroft’s left buttock, hard, prompting a low, desperate whine. “So close to coming. You’ll make a mess, though, if you do. It won’t be your suit that needs cleaning – your shirt, yeah, you’ll come all over that, and your stomach and chest – but it’ll be these beautiful trousers you bought me that you’ll make a sticky mess of. And the duvet. You know I’ll make you clean it all up, darlin’. Won’t be me that does it.” The next slap falls at the crease of Mycroft’s thigh, leaving a stinging red mark.

Mycroft’s breath is ragged, coming in gasps. He moans, openly rubbing himself against Greg’s thigh. “I –” he whispers. “I want to be good for you, Gregory. I want to – but I – I’m so close –” his cock strains, and he flexes his hips forward, thrusting harder for friction. “Oh – oh _God_ –”

Greg grins silently to himself. _God. Not a word Mycroft uses, except under extreme pressure._

“It’s your decision, gorgeous,” he says, and the slap to Mycroft’s thigh catches him unawares, makes him groan. “I’m just telling you. If you make a mess, you clean it up.”

Mycroft’s cheeks are hectic, his eyes pressed shut. “Gregory,” he whispers. “Gregory.” It’s a plea, and Greg answers it with another slap to his left buttock. Mycroft moans, thrusting hard against Greg’s thigh. “Gregory – I have to – I have to – I’ll clean it up, I swear –” his voice is drawn tight with need.

Greg moves his fingers with more intent inside Mycroft, circles of cautious pressure to his prostate; he digs his fingernails gently into the reddened, tingling skin of Mycroft’s buttock, and Mycroft sobs, suddenly, pulling at his own hair –

– Greg can feel the last vestiges of control breaking in his lover, and Mycroft thrusts, one last time, against his thigh –

Mycroft starts to come, spilling himself at last with a cracked, desperate moan – “Gregory – oh, Gregory – I am – sorry –”

He shakes in Greg’s lap, cock jerking, soaking the fabric of Greg’s trousers with burst after burst of come.

Greg takes his right hand to Mycroft’s hair, stroking softly. “Good boy,” he murmurs, over and over. “My good boy.”

At last, Mycroft stops shaking and lets himself fall, exhausted, against Greg. Slowly, millimetre by millimetre, Greg withdraws his fingers. Gently, he touches Mycroft’s hip. “Up, darlin’,” he murmurs.

In the bathroom, he washes his hands carefully, and fetches a towel and lotion. He cleans up the duvet, and pulls Mycroft to his feet; helps him strip, and lays him on his front. He strokes the tender, reddened skin with lotion, murmuring soft nonsense. Finally, he stands up again, and lets his own trousers and shirt fall to the bedroom floor; curls himself delicately, dressed only in boxers, around Mycroft.

Greg kisses Mycroft’s shoulder, hoping that he understands Greg’s insistent erection is not a demand – just a reaction.

Mycroft turns to him, pushing his face into Greg’s chest. “Thank you,” he murmurs, tiredly.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s eyes open, dark grey. “Perfectly.”

“Okay.” Greg kisses Mycroft’s eyebrow. “Okay. Good.”

“Fuck me,” says Mycroft. Despite his control, there is a vulnerable half-question about the words.

“You know I’m not – I mean – we don’t have to –”

Mycroft shakes his head, slightly. “I want you to,” he says, quietly. He hesitates. “I want –” he presses his lips together, gaze dropping. “From behind,” he murmurs. “Hard.”

Greg presses his lips to Mycroft’s forehead. “Whatever you want,” he says, a rough edge to his voice. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Mycroft puts a hand in the centre of Greg’s chest. He looks up, cheeks touched with pink. “Gregory,” he murmurs. “You make it all – go quiet.”

Greg looks at him, reading all the tentative signs of a man unused to declarations. To emotion. A man desperate to be understood. He takes a kiss, soft and slow. “I’m glad. I’m glad I can,” he murmurs, pushing their foreheads together. “Gorgeous.”

 


End file.
